Christine.  He’ll simply forbid it utterly, of course.

Keith.  H’m!  Hard case!  Man who reads family prayers, and lessons on Sunday forbids son to——­

Christine, Ronny!

Keith.  Great Scott!  I’m not saying Bill ought to marry her.  She’s got to stand the racket.  But your Dad will have a tough job to take up that position.

Dot.  Awfully funny!

Christine.  What on earth d’you mean, Dot?

Dot.  Morality in one eye, and your title in the other!

Christine.  Rubbish!

Harold.  You’re all reckoning without your Bill.

Keith.  Ye-es.  Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help
the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a——­
     [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.]

Harold.  I won’t take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you girls, I should think.

Christine and Dot.  Of course not!

Keith. [Patting his wife’s arm] Hardly the point, is it?

Dot.  If it wasn’t for mother!  Freda’s just as much of a lady as most girls.  Why shouldn’t he marry her, and go to Canada?  It’s what he’s really fit for.

Harold.  Steady on, Dot!

Dot.  Well, imagine him in Parliament!  That’s what he’ll come to, if he stays here—­jolly for the country!

Christine.  Don’t be cynical!  We must find a way of stopping Bill.

Dot.  Me cynical!

Christine.  Let’s go and beg him, Ronny!

Keith.  No earthly!  The only hope is in the girl.

Dot.  She hasn’t the stuff in her!

Harold.  I say!  What price young Dunning!  Right about face!  Poor old Dad!

Christine.  It’s past joking, Harold!

Dot. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham’s better than most relations by marriage!

Keith.  Thanks!

Christine.  It’s ridiculous—­monstrous!  It’s fantastic!

Harold. [Holding up his hand] There’s his horse going round.  He’s in!

They turn from listening to the sound, to see lady Cheshire coming from the billiard-room.  She is very pale.  They all rise and Dot puts an arm round her; while Keith pushes forward his chair.  Joan and latter too have come stealing back.

Lady Cheshire.  Thank you, Ronny!
     [She sits down.]

Dot.  Mother, you’re shivering!  Shall I get you a fur?

Lady Cheshire.  No, thanks, dear!

Dot. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling!

Lady Cheshire. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny?

Keith.  Quite fair, M’m.  Brazier’s to Caffyn’s Dyke, good straight line.