down upon.) What!  Uncle William!  I haven’t seen you since you gave up drinking. (Poor Uncle William, shamed, would protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding) you have given it up, haven’t you? (releasing him with a playful push) of course you have:  quite right too; you overdid it. (He turns away from Uncle William and makes for the sofa.) And now, where is that upright horsedealer Uncle Titus?  Uncle Titus:  come forth. (He comes upon him holding the chair as Judith sits down.) As usual, looking after the ladies.

Uncle Titus (indignantly).  Be ashamed of yourself, sir—­

Richard (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him).  I am:  I am; but I am proud of my uncle—­proud of all my relatives (again surveying them) who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? (Uncle Titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa.  Richard turns to the table.) Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them.  Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark.  Come! (with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the decanter) clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times.

Anderson.  You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink before dinner.

Richard.  You will, some day, Pastor:  Uncle William used to drink before breakfast.  Come:  it will give your sermons unction. (He smells the wine and makes a wry face.) But do not begin on my mother’s company sherry.  I stole some when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate man ever since. (He puts the decanter down and changes the subject.) So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks.

Anderson (quietly indicating Judith).  Sir:  you are in the presence of my wife. (Judith rises and stands with stony propriety.)

Richard (quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners).  Your servant, madam:  no offence. (He looks at her earnestly.) You deserve your reputation; but I’m sorry to see by your expression that you’re a good woman.

(She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy from his relatives.  Anderson, sensible enough to know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored.) All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than I did before.  By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father?

Uncle Titus.  He had only one irregular child, sir.

Richard.  Only one!  He thinks one a mere trifle!  I blush for you,
Uncle Titus.

Anderson.  Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her grief.

Richard.  It touches me profoundly, Pastor.  By the way, what has become of the irregular child?