JUDGE.  The poor things are still searching.

HARVEY. [Firmly.] Alice, I protest, I do indeed—­

MRS. WESTERN.  Don’t be so foolishly sentimental—­it’s ridiculous at your age.  The young woman is in my employ, as governess to my children. [MARTIN comes in.] Has Miss Farren gone out yet?

MARTIN.  No, madam.  I believe she’s in her room, dressing.

MRS. WESTERN.  Ask her to come.

MARTIN.  Yes, madam. [He goes.

JUDGE. [Shaking his head.] No sense of proportion, that’s the truth—­they’ve no sense of proportion.

MRS. BANKET.  Tom!

JUDGE.  A fact, my dear—­but you can’t help it.  You’ve every quality in the world but just that—­you will always look through the wrong end of the telescope.

MRS. BANKET.  Really, Tom, this isn’t the moment for your nonsense—­and if you only knew how stupid you are when you try to be funny!

HARVEY. [Going nervously to MRS. WESTERN.] I say, I really do think—­

MRS. WESTERN. [Roughly.] I don’t care what you think.  Leave me alone!

[There is silence.  The JUDGE, sitting by the fire, whistles loudly “Waltz me around again, Willie!" HARVEY has gone moodily across the room and stands by the sideboard. MRS. BANKET is sitting behind the table.  After a moment the door opens, and MISS FARREN comes in, with hat and cloak on, and goes straight to MRS. WESTERN. She is an extremely pretty girl of twenty.

MISS FARREN.  You want me, Mrs. Western?

MRS. WESTERN.  Oh, Miss Farren, I’ve lost my bracelet.

MISS FARREN.  Really!  I’m so sorry!  Where?

MRS. WESTERN.  I don’t know.  You didn’t see it, of course, after we’d gone?

MISS FARREN. [Shaking her head.] No—­and no one came in.  I was writing the letter to Harrod’s.

MRS. WESTERN.  No one at all?

MISS FARREN.  No—­I’m sure of that.  And I’d hardly got to my room when I heard the car come back.

MRS. WESTERN.  Well, thank you, Miss Farren.

MISS FARREN.  It’s very annoying.  You’re sure it’s not in the car?

JUDGE.  My dear Miss Farren, it’s not in the car, it’s not anywhere, and I’m beginning to believe it never was at all.  Come, Alice, let’s go.  We shan’t see much of the play, but we can at least help the British drama by buying two programmes.

MISS FARREN. [With a light laugh—­then turning to MRS. WESTERN again.]
Do you want me any more, Mrs. Western?

MRS. WESTERN.  No, thanks. [MISS FARREN turns to go—­MRS. WESTERN, who has suddenly cast an eager glance at her, as though attracted by something, calls her back.] Oh, Miss Farren!

MISS FARREN. [Turning.] Yes?

MRS. WESTERN.  I wonder whether you’d be so good as to shift this aigrette of mine—­it’s hurting me.