George.  Ah!

Burney.  Thank you, sir. [She withdraws.]

George.  Damn!

He again goes to the curtained door, and passes through.  Paynter, coming in from the hall, announces:  “General Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond.”  Sir Charles is an upright, well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains.  Lady Dedmond has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision, not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had faced many situations in many parts of the world.  She is fifty five.

     Paynter withdraws.

Sir Charles.  Hullo!  Where are they?  H’m!

     As he speaks, George re-enters.

Lady Dedmond. [Kissing her son] Well, George.  Where’s Clare?

George.  Afraid she’s late.

Lady Dedmond.  Are we early?

George.  As a matter of fact, she’s not in.

Lady Dedmond.  Oh?

Sir Charles.  H’m!  Not—­not had a rumpus?

George.  Not particularly. [With the first real sign of feeling]
What I can’t stand is being made a fool of before other people. 
Ordinary friction one can put up with.  But that——­

Sir Charles.  Gone out on purpose?  What!

Lady Dedmond.  What was the trouble?

George.  I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge. 
Appears she’d asked that fellow Malise, for music.

Lady Dedmond.  Without letting you know?

George.  I believe she did tell me.

Lady Dedmond.  But surely——­

George.  I don’t want to discuss it.  There’s never anything in particular.  We’re all anyhow, as you know.

Lady Dedmond.  I see. [She looks shrewdly at her son] My dear,
I should be rather careful about him, I think.

Sir Charles.  Who’s that?

Lady Dedmond.  That Mr. Malise.

Sir Charles.  Oh!  That chap!

George.  Clare isn’t that sort.

Lady Dedmond.  I know.  But she catches up notions very easily.  I think it’s a great pity you ever came across him.

Sir Charles.  Where did you pick him up?

George.  Italy—­this Spring—­some place or other where they couldn’t speak English.

Sir Charles.  Um!  That’s the worst of travellin’.

Lady Dedmond.  I think you ought to have dropped him.  These literary people—–­[Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn’t very far, George.

Sir Charles.  We’ll make him play Bridge.  Do him good, if he’s that sort of fellow.