JOHN.  But of course The Echo is up against all your uncles’ papers—­at least it seems so.

TRANTO.  Absolutely up against them.  Tooth and nail.  Daggers drawn.  No quarter.  Death or victory.

JOHN.  But do you and your uncles speak to each other?

TRANTO.  Best of friends.

JOHN.  But aren’t two of your uncles lords?

TRANTO.  Yes.  Uncle Joe was made an earl not long since—­you may have heard of the fuss about it.  Uncle Sam’s only a miserable baron yet.  And Uncle Cuthbert is that paltry insect—­a baronet.

JOHN.  What did they get their titles for?

TRANTO.  Ask me another.

JOHN.  Of course I don’t want to be personal, but how did they get them?  Did they—­er—­buy them?

TRANTO.  Don’t know.

JOHN.  Haven’t you ever asked them?

TRANTO.  Well, John, you’ve got relatives yourself, and you probably know there are some things that even the most affectionate relatives don’t ask each other.

HILDEGARDE (rising from the desk and looking at John’s feet).  Yes, indeed!  This very morning I unwisely asked Johnnie whether his socks ever talked.  Altercation followed.  ‘Some debate, believe me!’

JOHN (rising; with scornful tranquillity).  I’d better get ready for dinner.  Besides, you two would doubtless like to be alone together for a few precious moments.

HILDEGARDE (sharply and self-consciously).  What do you mean?

JOHN (lightly).  Nothing.  I thought editor and contributor—­

HILDEGARDE.  Oh!  I see.

JOHN (stopping at door, and turning round).  Do you mean to say your uncles won’t be frightfully angry at Mr. Sampson Straight’s articles?  Why, dash it, when he’s talking about traffic in honours, if he doesn’t mean them who does he mean?

TRANTO.  My dear friend, stuff like that’s meat and drink to my uncles.  They put it down like chocolates.

JOHN.  Well my deliberate opinion is—­it’s a jolly strange world. (Exit quickly, back).

TRANTO (looking at Hildegarde).  So it is.  Philosopher, John!  Questions rather pointed perhaps; but result in the discovery of new truths.  By the way, have I come too early?

HILDEGARDE (archly).  How could you?  But father’s controlling the country half an hour more than usual this evening, and I expect mamma was so angry about it she forgot to telephone you that dinner’s moved accordingly. (With piquancy and humour.) I was rather surprised to hear when I got home from my Ministry that you’d sent word you’d like to dine to-night.

TRANTO.  Were you?  Why?

HILDEGARDE.  Because last week when mamma asked you for to-night, you said you had another engagement.

TRANTO.  Oh!  I’d forgotten I’d told her that.  Still, I really had another engagement.

HILDEGARDE.  The Countess of Blackfriars—­you said.