Mrs builder. [To his disappearing form] Do you think you ought, John?

     He has disappeared, and she ends with an expressive movement of her
     hands, a long sigh, and a closing of her eyes.  Builder’s peremptory
     voice is heard:  “Julia!”

What now?

     She follows into the bedroom.  The maid Annie puts her head out of
     the kitchen door; she comes out a step as if to fly; then, at
     Builder’s voice, shrinks back into the kitchen.

Builder, reappearing with a razor strop in one hand and a shaving-brush in the other, is followed by Mrs builder.

Builder.  Explain these!  My God!  Where’s that girl?

Mrs builder.  John!  Don’t! [Getting between him and the kitchen door]
It’s not dignified.

Builder.  I don’t care a damn.

Mrs builder.  John, you mustn’t.  Athene has the tiny beginning of a moustache, you know.

Builder.  What!  I shall stay and clear this up if I have to wait a week.  Men who let their daughters—!  This age is the limit. [He makes a vicious movement with the strop, as though laying it across someone’s back.]

Mrs builder.  She would never stand that.  Even wives object, nowadays.

Builder. [Grimly] The war’s upset everything.  Women are utterly out of hand.  Why the deuce doesn’t she come?

Mrs builder.  Suppose you leave me here to see her.

Builder. [Ominously] This is my job.

Mrs builder.  I think it’s more mine.

Builder.  Don’t stand there opposing everything I say!  I’ll go and have another look—­[He is going towards the bedroom when the sound of a latchkey in the outer door arrests him.  He puts the strop and brush behind his back, and adds in a low voice] Here she is!

Mrs builder has approached him, and they have both turned towards the opening door.  Guy Herringhame comes in.  They are a little out of his line of sight, and he has shut the door before he sees them.  When he does, his mouth falls open, and his hand on to the knob of the door.  He is a comely young man in Harris tweeds.  Moreover, he is smoking.  He would speak if he could, but his surprise is too excessive.  Builder.  Well, sir?

Guy. [Recovering a little] I was about to say the same to you, sir.

Builder. [Very red from repression] These rooms are not yours, are they?

Guy.  Nor yours, sir?

Builder.  May I ask if you know whose they are?

Guy.  My sister’s.

Builder.  Your—­you—!

Mrs builder.  John!

Builder.  Will you kindly tell me why your sister signs her drawings by the name of my daughter, Athene Builder—­and has a photograph of my wife hanging there?