Mrs George [coming to the hearth and addressing Reginald] Mr Bridgenorth:  will you oblige me by leaving me with this young man.  I want to talk to him like a mother, on your business.

Reginald.  Do, maam.  He needs it badly.  Come along, Sykes. [He goes into the study].

Sykes [looks irresolutely at Hotchkiss]—?

Hotchkiss.  Too late:  you cant save me now, Cecil.  Go.

Sykes goes into the study.  Mrs George strolls across to Hotchkiss and contemplates him curiously.

Hotchkiss.  Useless to prolong this agony. [Rising] Fatal woman—­ if woman you are indeed and not a fiend in human form—­

Mrs George.  Is this out of a book?  Or is it your usual society small talk?

Hotchkiss [recklessly] Jibes are useless:  the force that is sweeping me away will not spare you.  I must know the worst at once.  What was your father?

Mrs George.  A licensed victualler who married his barmaid.  You would call him a publican, most likely.

Hotchkiss.  Then you are a woman totally beneath me.  Do you deny it?  Do you set up any sort of pretence to be my equal in rank, in age, or in culture?

Mrs George.  Have you eaten anything that has disagreed with you?

Hotchkiss [witheringly] Inferior!

Mrs George.  Thank you.  Anything else?

Hotchkiss.  This.  I love you.  My intentions are not honorable. [She shows no dismay].  Scream.  Ring the bell.  Have me turned out of the house.

Mrs George [with sudden depth of feeling] Oh, if you could restore to this wasted exhausted heart one ray of the passion that once welled up at the glance at the touch of a lover!  It’s you who would scream then, young man.  Do you see this face, once fresh and rosy like your own, now scarred and riven by a hundred burnt-out fires?

Hotchkiss [wildly] Slate fires.  Thirteen shillings a ton.  Fires that shoot out destructive meteors, blinding and burning, sending men into the streets to make fools of themselves.

Mrs George.  You seem to have got it pretty bad, Sinjon.

Hotchkiss.  Dont dare call me Sinjon.

Mrs George.  My name is Zenobia Alexandrina.  You may call me Polly for short.

Hotchkiss.  Your name is Ashtoreth—­Durga—­there is no name yet invented malign enough for you.

Mrs George [sitting down comfortably] Come!  Do you really think youre better suited to that young sauce box than her husband?  You enjoyed her company when you were only the friend of the family—­ when there was the husband there to shew off against and to take all the responsibility.  Are you sure youll enjoy it as much when you are the husband?  She isnt clever, you know.  She’s only silly-clever.