Mrs. Barthwick. [Sharply.] John! it’s simply not fair to other people.  It’s putting property at the mercy of any one who likes to take it.

Barthwick. [Trying to make signs to her aside.] I ’m not defending him, not at all.  I’m trying to look at the matter broadly.

Mrs. Barthwick.  Nonsense, John, there’s a time for everything.

Snow. [Rather sardonically.] I might point out, sir, that to withdraw the charge of stealing would not make much difference, because the facts must come out [he looks significantly at jack] in reference to the assault; and as I said that charge will have to go forward.

Barthwick. [Hastily.] Yes, oh! exactly!  It’s entirely on the woman’s account—­entirely a matter of my own private feelings.

Snow.  If I were you, sir, I should let things take their course.  It’s not likely there’ll be much difficulty.  These things are very quick settled.

Barthwick. [Doubtfully.] You think so—­you think so?

Jack. [Rousing himself.] I say, what shall I have to swear to?

Snow.  That’s best known to yourself, sir. [Retreating to the door.] Better employ a solicitor, sir, in case anything should arise.  We shall have the butler to prove the loss of the article.  You’ll excuse me going, I ’m rather pressed to-night.  The case may come on any time after eleven.  Good evening, sir; good evening, ma’am.  I shall have to produce the box in court to-morrow, so if you’ll excuse me, sir, I may as well take it with me.

     [He takes the silver box and leaves them with a little bow.]

     [Barthwick makes a move to follow him, then dashing his hands
     beneath his coat tails, speaks with desperation.]

Barthwick.  I do wish you’d leave me to manage things myself.  You will put your nose into matters you know nothing of.  A pretty mess you’ve made of this!

Mrs. Barthwick. [Coldly.] I don’t in the least know what you’re talking about.  If you can’t stand up for your rights, I can.  I ’ve no patience with your principles, it’s such nonsense.

Barthwick.  Principles!  Good Heavens!  What have principles to do with it for goodness sake?  Don’t you know that Jack was drunk last night!

Jack.  Dad!

Mrs. Barthwick. [In horror rising.] Jack!

Jack.  Look here, Mother—­I had supper.  Everybody does.  I mean to say—­you know what I mean—­it’s absurd to call it being drunk.  At Oxford everybody gets a bit “on” sometimes——­

Mrs. Barthwick.  Well, I think it’s most dreadful!  If that is really what you do at Oxford?

Jack. [Angrily.] Well, why did you send me there?  One must do as other fellows do.  It’s such nonsense, I mean, to call it being drunk.  Of course I ’m awfully sorry.  I ’ve had such a beastly headache all day.