Janet.  He’s left them.  He’s writing a play.

Mrs. B. (concerned).  Dear, dear!  And he used to be such a steady young fellow.

    [All that matters in their conversation is now finished, but as the
    play has got to be filled up they continue to talk for some ten minutes
    longer.  At the end of that time—­

Janet (glancing at clock again).  It’s half-past nine, and neither of they men back yet.

    [Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted,
    the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind. 
    This is called realism.

Mrs. B. Listen!  Yer feyther’s comin’ now.

[A door in the far distance is heard to bang.  At the same instant John Bullyum enters quickly.  He is the typical British parent of repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a gamekeeper and an undertaker.

Bullyum (He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks scornfully).  Well, here’s a fine thing happened.

Mrs. B. What is it, feyther?

Bully, (showing letter).  That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the impudence to write me asking for our Janet.  But I’ve told him off to rights.  He’s nobbut a boot-builder.

Janet (in a level voice).  Ye’re wrong there, feyther.  Bob Inkslinger’s a dramatist now.

Bully, (thunderstruck).  What?

Janet (as before).  He’s had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.

Bully.  Great Powers, a repertory dramatist!  And I’ve insulted him!—­me, a town councillor. (He has grown white to the lips; this is not easy, but can be managed.) There’ll be a play about me—­about us, this house—­ everything.  But (passionately) I’ll thwart him yet.  Janet, my girl, do thee write at once and say that I withdraw my opposition to the engagement.

Janet (dully).  But I don’t want the man.

Bully, (hectoring).  Am I your feyther or am I not?  I tell you you shall marry him.  And what’s more, he shan’t find us what he looks for.  No, no (with rising agitation), he thinks that because I’m a town councillor I’m to be made game of, does he?  Well, I’ll learn him different! (Glaring round) This room—­it’s got to be changed.  And you (to Janet) put on a short frock, something lively and up-to-date—­d’ ye hear?  At once!

Mrs. B. (as Janet only stares without moving).  Well, I never.

Bully.  And let’s have some books about the place—­BERNARD SHAW—­

Janet (icily).  He’s a back number now, feyther.

Bully.  Well, whoever’s the latest.  Then you must go to plays and dances, lots of dances. (Struck with an idea) Where’s David?