CONFUCIUS. It is her official duty to report personally to the President once a quarter. BURGE-LUBIN. Oh, that. Then I suppose it's my official duty to receive her. Theyd better send her in. You don't mind, do you? She will bring us back to real life. I don't know how you fellows feel; but I'm just going dotty. CONFUCIUS [_into the telephone_] The President will receive the Domestic Minister at once. _They watch the door in silence for the entrance of the Domestic Minister._ BURGE-LUBIN [_suddenly, to the Archbishop_] I suppose you have been married over and over again. THE ARCHBISHOP. Once. You do not make vows until death when death is three hundred years off. _They relapse into uneasy silence. The Domestic Minister enters. She is a handsome woman, apparently in the prime of life, with elegant, tense, well held-up figure, and the walk of a goddess. Her expression and deportment are grave, swift, decisive, awful, unanswerable. She wears a Dianesque tunic instead of a blouse, and a silver coronet instead of a gold fillet. Her dress otherwise is not markedly different from that of the men, who rise as she enters, and incline their heads with instinctive awe. She comes to the vacant chair between Barnabas and Confucius._ BURGE-LUBIN [_resolutely genial and gallant_] Delighted to see you, Mrs Lutestring. CONFUCIUS. We are honored by your celestial presence. BARNABAS. Good day, madam. THE ARCHBISHOP. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. I am the Archbishop of York. MRS LUTESTRING. Surely we have met, Mr Archbishop. I remember your face. We--[_she checks herself suddenly_] Ah, no: I remember now: it was someone else. [_She sits down_]. They all sit down. THE ARCHBISHOP [_also puzzled_] Are you sure you are mistaken? I also have some association with your face, Mrs Lutestring. Something like a door opening continually and revealing you. And a smile of welcome when you recognized me. Did you ever open a door for me, I wonder? MRS LUTESTRING. I often opened a door for the person you have just reminded me of. But he has been dead many years. The rest, except the Archbishop, look at one another quickly. CONFUCIUS. May I ask how many years? MRS LUTESTRING [_struck by his tone, looks at him for a moment with some displeasure; then replies_] It does not matter. A long time. BURGE-LUBIN. You mustnt rush to conclusions about the Archbishop, Mrs Lutestring. He is an older bird than you think. Older than you, at all events. MRS LUTESTRING [_with a melancholy smile_] I think not, Mr President. But the subject is a delicate one. I had rather not pursue it. CONFUCIUS. There is a question which has not been asked. MRS LUTESTRING [_very decisively_] If it is a question about my age, Mr Chief Secretary, it had better not be asked. All that concerns you about my personal affairs can be found in the books of the Accountant General.