Mrs. Hope, [Peremptorily.] Tom!

Colonel. [In hasty confidence.] I find it best to let your aunt run on.  If she says anything——­

Mrs. Hope.  To-om!

Colonel.  Yes, dear!

[He goes hastily.  Mrs. Gwyn sits drawing circles on the ground with her charming parasol.  Suddenly she springs to her feet, and stands waiting like an animal at bay.  The colonel and Mrs. Hope approach her talking.]

Mrs. Hope.  Well, how was I to know?

Colonel.  Did n’t Joy come and tell you?

Mrs. Hope.  I don’t know what’s the matter with that child?  Well, Molly, so here you are.  You’re before your time—­that train’s always late.

Mrs. Gwyn. [With faint irony.] I’m sorry, Aunt Nell!

     [They bob, seem to take fright, and kiss each other gingerly.]

Mrs. Hope.  What have you done with Mr. Lever?  I shall have to put him in Peachey’s room.  Tom’s got no champagne.

Colonel.  They’ve a very decent brand down at the George, Molly, I’ll send Bob over——­

Mrs. Hope.  Rubbish, Tom!  He’ll just have to put up with what he can get!

Mrs. Gwyn.  Of course!  He’s not a snob!  For goodness sake, Aunt Nell, don’t put yourself out!  I’m sorry I suggested his coming.

Colonel.  My dear, we ought to have champagne in the house—­in case of accident.

Mrs. Gwyn. [Shaking him gently by the coat.] No, please, Uncle Tom!

Mrs. Hope. [Suddenly.] Now, I’ve told your uncle, Molly, that he’s not to go in for this gold mine without making certain it’s a good thing.  Mind, I think you’ve been very rash.  I’m going to give you a good talking to; and that’s not all—­you ought n’t to go about like this with a young man; he’s not at all bad looking.  I remember him perfectly well at the Fleming’s dance.

     [On Mrs. GWYN’s lips there comes a little mocking smile.]

Colonel. [Pulling his wife’s sleeve.] Nell!

Mrs. Hope.  No, Tom, I’m going to talk to Molly; she’s old enough to know better.

Mrs. Gwyn.  Yes?

Mrs. Hope.  Yes, and you’ll get yourself into a mess; I don’t approve of it, and when I see a thing I don’t approve of——­

Colonel. [Walking about, and pulling his moustache.] Nell, I won’t have it, I simply won’t have it.

Mrs. Hope.  What rate of interest are these Preference shares to pay?

Mrs. Gwyn. [Still smiling.] Ten per cent.

Mrs. Hope.  What did I tell you, Tom?  And are they safe?

Mrs. Gwyn.  You’d better ask Maurice.