Latter.  If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to right her again. 
There’s no answer to that.

Keith.  It all depends.

Latter.  That’s rank opportunism.

Keith.  Rats!  Look here—­Oh! hang it, John, one can’t argue this out with a parson.

Latter. [Frigidly] Why not?

Harold. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pull baker!

Keith.  Shut up, Harold!

Latter.  “To play the game” is the religion even of the Army.

Keith.  Exactly, but what is the game?

Latter.  What else can it be in this case?

Keith.  You’re too puritanical, young John.  You can’t help it—­line of country laid down for you.  All drag-huntin’!  What!

Latter. [With concentration] Look here!

Harold. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse’s head]
‘Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!’

Keith. [To latter] You’re not going to draw me, old chap.  You don’t see where you’d land us all. [He smokes calmly]

Latter.  How do you imagine vice takes its rise?  From precisely this sort of thing of young Dunning’s.

Keith.  From human nature, I should have thought, John.  I admit that I don’t like a fellow’s leavin’ a girl in the lurch; but I don’t see the use in drawin’ hard and fast rules.  You only have to break ’em.  Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there’ll be the deuce to pay in a year’s time.  You can take a horse to the water, you can’t make him drink.

Latter.  I entirely and absolutely disagree with you.

Harold.  Good old John!

Latter.  At all events we know where your principles take you.

Keith. [Rather dangerously] Where, please? [Harold turns up his eyes, and points downwards] Dry up, Harold!

Latter.  Did you ever hear the story of Faust?

Keith.  Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, and all the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes.

Latter.  Well, I must say, Ronny—­of all the rude boors——­[He turns towards the billiard-room.]

Keith.  Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap.

     Latter passes out.  There comes a mingled sound through the
     opened door, of female voices, laughter, and the click of
     billiard balls, dipped of by the sudden closing of the door.

Keith. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a parson puts one’s back up!  Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought to play the game; and I hope Sir William’ll make him.

The butler Jackson has entered from the door under the stairs followed by the keeper Studdenham, a man between fifty and sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches, and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face, with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once been red.

Keith.  Hullo!  Studdenham!