Cuthbertson (warmly).  Not always.  Don’t exaggerate, Charteris.  You know very well that though I joined the club on Grace’s account, thinking that her father’s presence there would be a protection and a—­a sort of sanction, as it were—­I never approved of it.

Craven (tactlessly harping on Cuthbertson’s inconsistency).  Well, you know, this is unexpected:  now it’s really very unexpected.  I should never have thought it from hearing you talk, Jo.  Why, you said the whole modern movement was abhorrent to you because your life had been passed in witnessing scenes of suffering nobly endured and sacrifice willingly rendered by womanly women and manly men and deuce knows what else.  Is it at the Ibsen club that you see all this manliness and womanliness?

Charteris.  Certainly not:  the rules of the club forbid anything of that sort.  Every candidate for membership must be nominated by a man and a woman, who both guarantee that the candidate, if female, is not womanly, and if male, is not manly.

Craven (chuckling cunningly and stooping to press his heated trousers against his legs, which are chilly).  Won’t do, Charteris.  Can’t take me in with so thin a story as that.

Cuthbertson (vehemently).  It’s true.  It’s monstrous, but it’s true.

Craven (with rising indignation, as he begins to draw the inevitable inferences).  Do you mean to say that somebody had the audacity to guarantee that my Julia is not a womanly woman?

Charteris (darkly).  It sounds incredible; but a man was found ready to take that inconceivable lie on his conscience.

Julia (firing up).  If he has nothing worse than that on his conscience, he may sleep pretty well.  In what way am I more womanly than any of the rest of them, I should like to know?  They are always saying things like that behind my back—­I hear of them from Sylvia.  Only the other day a member of the committee said I ought never to have been elected—­that you (to Charteris) had smuggled me in.  I should like to see her say it to my face:  that’s all.

Craven.  But, my precious, I most sincerely hope she was right.  She paid you the highest compliment.  Why, the place must be a den of infamy.

Cuthbertson (emphatically).  So it is, Craven, so it is.

Charteris.  Exactly.  That’s what keeps it so select:  nobody but people whose reputations are above suspicion dare belong to it.  If we once got a good name, we should become a mere whitewashing shop for all the shady characters in London.  Better join us, Craven.  Let me put you up.

Craven.  What!  Join a club where there’s some scoundrel who guaranteed my daughter to be an unwomanly woman!  If I weren’t an invalid, I’d kick him.

Charteris.  Oh don’t say that.  It was I who did it.

Craven (reproachfully).  You!  Now upon my soul, Charteris, this is very vexing.  Now how could you bring yourself to do such a thing?