Sybil [yawning].  I have never shot up in flame, Auntie.

Comtesse.  Think you could manage it?

Sybil.  If Mr. Right came along.

Comtesse.  As a girl of to-day it would be your duty to tame him.

Sybil.  As a girl of to-day I would try to do my duty.

Comtesse.  And if it turned out that he tamed you instead?

Sybil.  He would have to do that if he were my Mr. Right.

Comtesse.  And then?

Sybil.  Then, of course, I should adore him.  Auntie, I think if I ever really love it will be like Mary Queen of Scots, who said of her Bothwell that she could follow him round the world in her nighty.

Comtesse.  My petite!

Sybil.  I believe I mean it.

Comtesse.  Oh, it is quite my conception of your character.  Do you know, I am rather sorry for this Mr. John Shand.

Sybil [opening her fine eyes].  Why?  He is quite a boor, is he not?

Comtesse.  For that very reason.  Because his great hour is already nearly sped.  That wild bull manner that moves the multitude—­they will laugh at it in your House of Commons.

Sybil [indifferent].  I suppose so.

Comtesse.  Yet if he had education—–­

Sybil.  Have we not been hearing how superbly he is educated?

Comtesse.  It is such as you or me that he needs to educate him now. 
You could do it almost too well.

Sybil [with that pretty stretch of neck].  I am not sufficiently interested.  I retire in your favour.  How would you begin?

Comtesse.  By asking him to drop in, about five, of course.  By the way, I wonder is there a Mrs. Shand?

Sybil.  I have no idea.  But they marry young.

Comtesse.  If there is not, there is probably a lady waiting for him, somewhere in a boiler.

Sybil.  I dare say.

[Maggie descends.]

Maggie.  Mr. Shand will be down directly.

Comtesse.  Thank you.  Your brother has been giving us such an interesting account of his career.  I forget, Sybil, whether he said that he was married.

Maggie.  No, he’s not married; but he will be soon.

Comtesse.  Ah! [She is merely making conversation.] A friend of yours?

Maggie [now a scorner of herself].  I don’t think much of her.

Comtesse.  In that case, tell me all about her.

Maggie.  There’s not much to tell.  She’s common, and stupid.  One of those who go in for self-culture; and then when the test comes they break down. [With sinister enjoyment] She’ll be the ruin of him.

Comtesse.  But is not that sad!  Figure to yourself how many men with greatness before them have been shipwrecked by marrying in the rank from which they sprang.