John.  Who?

James.  The swells; in their motor. [He gives John three cards.]

John.  ‘Mr. Tenterden.’

David.  Him that was speaking for you?

John.  The same.  He’s a whip and an Honourable.  ’Lady Sybil
Tenterden.’ [Frowns.] Her!  She’s his sister.

Maggie.  A married woman?

John.  No.  ‘The Comtesse de la Briere.’

Maggie [the scholar].  She must be French.

John.  Yes; I think she’s some relation.  She’s a widow.

James.  But what am I to say to them? [’Mr. Shand’s compliments, and he will be proud to receive them’ is the very least that the Wylies expect.]

John [who was evidently made for great ends].  Say I’m very busy, but if they care to wait I hope presently to give them a few minutes.

James [thunderstruck].  Good God, Mr. Shand!

[But it makes him john’s more humble servant than ever, and he departs with the message.]

John [not unaware of the sensation he has created].  I’ll go up and let the crowd see me from the window.

Maggie.  But—­but—­what are we to do with these ladies?

John [as he tramps upwards].  It’s your reception, Maggie; this will prove you.

Maggie [growing smaller].  Tell me what you know about this Lady
Sybil?

John.  The only thing I know about her is that she thinks me vulgar.

Maggie.  You?

John.  She has attended some of my meetings, and I’m told she said that.

Maggie.  What could the woman mean?

John.  I wonder.  When I come down I’ll ask her.

[With his departure MAGGIE’S nervousness increases.]

Alick [encouragingly].  In at them, Maggie, with your French.

Maggie.  It’s all slipping from me, father.

David [gloomily].  I’m sure to say ‘for to come for to go.’

[The newcomers glorify the room, and Maggie feels that they have lifted her up with the tongs and deposited her in one of the basins.  They are far from intending to be rude; it is not their fault that thus do swans scatter the ducks.  They do not know that they are guests of the family, they think merely that they are waiting with other strangers in a public room; they undulate inquiringly, and if Maggie could undulate in return she would have no cause for offence.  But she suddenly realises that this is an art as yet denied her, and that though David might buy her evening-gowns as fine as theirs [and is at this moment probably deciding to do so], she would look better carrying them in her arms than on her person.  She also feels that to emerge from wraps as they are doing is more difficult than to plank your money on the counter for them.  The Comtesse she could forgive, for she is old; but lady Sybil is young and beautiful and comes lazily to rest like a stately ship of Tarsus.]