TRANTO.  Do you mean you intend to refuse?

CULVER.  Do you mean you ever imagined that I should accept?  Me, in the same galley with Brill—­who daren’t go into his own clubs—­and Ullivant, and a few more pretty nearly as bad!  Of course, I shall refuse.  Nothing on earth would induce me to accept.  Nothing! (More calmly.) Mind you, I don’t blame the Government; probably the Government can’t help itself.  Therefore the Government must be helped; and sometimes the best way to help a fellow creature is to bring him to his senses by catching him one across the jaw.

TRANTO.  Why are you making a secret of it?  The offer is surely bound to come out.

CULVER.  Of course.  I’m only making a secret of it for the moment, while I prepare the domestic ground for my refusal.

TRANTO.  You wish me to understand—­

CULVER.  You know what women are. (With caution.) I speak of the sex in general.

TRANTO.  I see.

CULVER.  That’s all right.

TRANTO.  Well, if I mayn’t congratulate you on the title, let me congratulate you on your marvellous skill in this delicate operation of preparing the domestic ground for your refusal of the title.  Your success is complete, absolute.

CULVER (sardonic.) Complete?  Absolute?

TRANTO.  You have—­er—­jockeyed Mrs.—­er—­the sex into committing itself quite definitely against titles.  Hence I look on your position as impregnable.

CULVER.  Good heavens, Tranto!  How old are you?

TRANTO.  Twenty-five.

CULVER.  A quarter of a century—­and you haven’t learnt that no position is impregnable against—­er—­the sex!  You never know where the offensive will come, nor when, nor how.  The offensive is bound to be a surprise.  You aren’t married.  When you are you’ll soon find out that being a husband is a whole-time job.  That’s why so many husbands fail.  They can’t give their entire attention to it.  Tranto, my position must be still further strengthened—­during dinner.  It can’t be strengthened too much.  I’ve brought you into the conspiracy because you’re on the spot and I want you to play up.

TRANTO.  Certainly, sir.

CULVER.  The official letter might come by to-night’s post.  If it does, a considerable amount of histrionic skill will be needed.

TRANTO.  Trust me for that.

CULVER.  Oh!  I do!  Indeed I fancy after all I’m fairly safe.  There’s only one danger.

TRANTO.  Yes?

CULVER.  My—­I mean the sex, must hear of the offered title from me first.  If the news came to her indirectly she’d—­

Enter Mrs. Culver rapidly, back.

MRS. CULVER (rushing to him).  Darling!  Dearest!  What a tease you are!  You needn’t pretend any longer.  Lady Prockter has just whispered to me over the telephone that you’re to have a baronetcy.  Of course she’d be bound to know.  She said I might tell you.  I never dreamed of a title.  I’m so glad.  Oh!  But you are a tease! (Kisses him enthusiastically.)