“Run away, child,” repeats Bertram, imperiously. “Critchett!” Critchett, who has returned, with a demure smile, guides the steps of the reluctant Bessy from the chamber. “Why do you let these children in, Critchett?” asks Bertram, as the valet returns. “I beg pardon, sir,” the servant says, humbly, as he lays the violets down on a _cloisonné_ plate. “But you have told me, sir, that you are always at home for the Brown family.” “You might surely have more judgment, after all your years of service!” replies his master. “There are exceptions to every rule.” Marlow looks up to the ceiling in scandalised protest. “Service! Service!” he repeats. “Hear him, ye gods! This is the rights of the individual; the independence of the unit; the perfect equality of one human being before another!” Cicely Seymour looks over her shoulder at him and remarks slightingly: “You are a great tease, Lord Marlow. You make me think I am in the schoolroom at Alfreton with my brothers home from Eton for Christmas. Do you really think that chaff is wit?” “I am not chaffing, Miss Seymour. I am in deadly earnest. This modest bunch must hold a deal of meaning. Who are the Brown family? Where is ‘our place’? What is the meeting which must be postponed because a bloated aristocrat, rolling in ill-gotten wealth, requires that corrupting luxury known as mustard and cress?” Everybody laughs, except Cicely Seymour. “Yes, Wilfrid,” says Lady Southwold; “who are the Brown family?” “To whom you are always at home,” adds his uncle. “And Annie who sends button-holes with love,” adds Marlow. Bertram replies with icy brevity, “A perfectly respectable young woman.” “And the respectable one’s address?” asks Marlow. “Where is ‘our place’? I am seized with an irresistible longing to eat mustard and cress. I never did eat it, but still----” Bertram eyes him very disagreeably. “The Browns are persons I esteem. I should not give their address to persons for whom I have no esteem.” “My dear Wilfrid!” cries his aunt. “How altruism does sour the temper!” “Temper! I hope I have too much philosophy to allow my temper to be ruffled by the clumsy horse-jokes of my acquaintances.” “But why are you always at home to these Browns?” Bertram hesitates. “Are they acolytes? studies? pensioners?” asks his aunt. “Is the respectable one pretty?” murmurs Marlow. “The respectable ones so uncommonly rarely are!” He takes the violets off the _cloisonné_ plate. “A buttonhole to be worn at Hoxton Theatre? It is an emblem of the immorality of finance: for its commercial value must be at least four farthings. If my Waterbury offend the eye of eternal justice this penny bunch must outrage it no less.” “It is quite natural, I think,” says Cicely Seymour, rather impatiently, “that Mr. Bertram should have many friends in those classes which he considers so superior to his own.” “I do not say any class is superior to any other,” interrupts Bertram. “I say that all are equal.”