Dora (vigorously).  And is it you, Gertrude Smith-Hybrow, that will be talking about me having time on my hands?  May the saints forgive you for the hard words, and me having to cycle this blessed day to Mrs. Montgomery’s lecture on the Dadaist Dramatists, and the meringues and the American creams to be made for to-night’s Tchekoff Conversazione.  Is it not enough for a girl to be destroyed with the play-acting, and the wind like to be in my face the whole way and the rain falling, falling?

    [Sits in her place and keens.

Mrs. S.-H. (after an interval of keening).  Is it your father that will be missing his train this morning, Dora Smith-Hybrow?

Dora (rousing herself and selecting an egg).  It is my father that will be missing his train entirely, and it is his son that would this minute be sleeping the blessed daylight away had I not let fall upon him a sponge that I had picked out of the cold, cold water.

Gertrude. It is a flapper you are, Dora Smith-Hybrow.

Dora. It is a flapper you will never be again, Gertrude Smith-Hybrow, though you be after doing your queer best to look like one.

Mrs. S.-H. Whisht!  Is it the time for loose talk, with the wind rising, rising, and the rain falling, falling, and the price of butter up another threepence this blessed morning?

    [They all three recommence keening.  Enter Mr. Smith-Hybrow followed
    by Cyril.

Mr. S.-H. (staunching a gash in his chin).  Is it not a hard thing for a man to be late for his breakfast and the rain falling, falling, and the wind rising, rising.  It’s destroyed I am with the loss of blood and no food in my stomach would keep the life in a flea.

    [Sits in his place and opens his letters savagely. Cyril, a
    cadaverous youth, stares gloomily into the depths of the marmalade.

Cyril (dreamily).  There’s gold and gold and gold—­caverns of gold.  And there’s a woman with hair of gold and eyes would pick the locks of a man’s soul, and long shining hands like pale seaweed.  Is it not a terrible thing that a man would have to go to the City when there is a woman with gold hair waiting for him in the marmalade pot—­waiting to draw him down into the cold, cold water?

Dora. Is it another spongeful you are wanting, Cyril Smith-Hybrow, and myself destroyed entirely waiting for the marmalade?

    [Cyril blushes, passes the marmalade, sits down languidly and selects
    an egg. Mrs. S.-H. pours out the coffee and resumes her keening.

Mr. S.-H. (glaring at her).  Is it not a nice thing for the wife of a respectable City stockbroker to sit at the breakfast-table making a noise like that of a cow that is waiting to be milked?

Mrs. S.-H. (hurt).  It is keening I am.