Latter.  Of course he’ll have to——.

Harold.  Ha!

Latter.  What do you mean by—­that?

Harold.  Look here, John!  You feel in your bones that a marriage’ll be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything!  Now don’t you?

Latter.  The whole thing is—­is most unfortunate.

Harold.  By Jove!  I should think it was!

As he speaks Christine and Keith Come in from the billiard-room.  He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weathered, thin-lipped, reticent.  He lights a cigarette and sinks into an armchair.  Behind them Dot and Joan have come stealing in.

Christine.  I’ve told Ronny.

Joan.  This waiting for father to be told is awful.

Harold. [To Keith] Where did you leave the old man?

Keith.  Clackenham.  He’ll be home in ten minutes.

Dot.  Mabel’s going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of discomfiture].  She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram.

Harold.  Phew!

Dot.  And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened.

Harold.  It’s up to you, Ronny.

     Keith, looking at Joan, slowly emits smoke; and latter passing
     his arm through Joan’s, draws her away with him into the
     billiard-room.

Keith.  Dot?

Dot.  I’m not a squeamy squirrel.

Keith.  Anybody seen the girl since?

Dot.  Yes.

Harold.  Well?

Dot.  She’s just sitting there.

Christine. [In a hard voice] As we’re all doing.

Dot.  She’s so soft, that’s what’s so horrible.  If one could only feel——!

Keith.  She’s got to face the music like the rest of us.

Dot.  Music!  Squeaks!  Ugh!  The whole thing’s like a concertina, and some one jigging it!

     They all turn as the door opens, and a footman enters with a
     tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water.  In dead silence
     the footman puts the tray down.

Harold. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As Keith nods] What point?

Keith.  Eight mile.

Footman.  Will you take tea, sir?

Keith.  No, thanks, Charles!

     In dead silence again the footman goes out, and they all look
     after him.

Harold. [Below his breath] Good Gad!  That’s a squeeze of it!

Keith.  What’s our line of country to be?

Christine.  All depends on father.

Keith.  Sir William’s between the devil and the deep sea, as it strikes me.