BURGE-LUBIN. Honestly, you do. And will you think me very rude if I say that if I must choose between a white woman old enough to be my great-grandmother and a black woman of my own age, I shall probably find the black woman more sympathetic? MRS LUTESTRING. And more attractive in color, perhaps? BURGE-LUBIN. Yes. Since you ask me, more--well, not more attractive: I do not deny that you have an excellent appearance--but I will say, richer. More Venetian. Tropical. 'The shadowed livery of the burnished sun.' MRS LUTESTRING. Our women, and their favorite story writers, begin already to talk about men with golden complexions. CONFUCIUS [_expanding into a smile all across both face and body_] A-a-a-a-a-h! BURGE-LUBIN. Well, what of it, madam? Have you read a very interesting book by the librarian of the Biological Society suggesting that the future of the world lies with the Mulatto? MRS LUTESTRING [_rising_] Mr Archbishop: if the white race is to be saved, our destiny is apparent. THE ARCHBISHOP. Yes: our duty is pretty clear. MRS LUTESTRING. Have you time to come home with me and discuss the matter? THE ARCHBISHOP [_rising_] With pleasure. BARNABAS [_rising also and rushing past Mrs Lutestring to the door, where he turns to bar her way_] No you don't. Burge: you understand, don't you? BURGE-LUBIN. No. What is it? BARNABAS. These two are going to marry. BURGE-LUBIN. Why shouldn't they, if they want to? BARNABAS. They don't want to. They will do it in cold blood because their children will live three hundred years. It mustnt be allowed. CONFUCIUS. You cannot prevent it. There is no law that gives you power to interfere with them. BARNABAS. If they force me to it I will obtain legislation against marriages above the age of seventy-eight. THE ARCHBISHOP. There is not time for that before we are married, Mr Accountant General. Be good enough to get out of the lady's way. BARNABAS. There is time to send the lady to the lethal chamber before anything comes of your marriage. Dont forget that. MRS LUTESTRING. What nonsense, Mr Accountant General! Good afternoon, Mr President. Good afternoon, Mr Chief Secretary. [_They rise and acknowledge her salutation with bows. She walks straight at the Accountant General, who instinctively shrinks out of her way as she leaves the room_]. THE ARCHBISHOP. I am surprised at you, Mr Barnabas. Your tone was like an echo from the Dark Ages. [_He follows the Domestic Minister_]. _Confucius, shaking his head and clucking with his tongue in deprecation of this painful episode, moves to the chair just vacated by the Archbishop and stands behind it with folded palms, looking at the President. The Accountant General shakes his fist after the departed visitors, and bursts into savage abuse of them._ BARNABAS. Thieves! Cursed thieves! Vampires! What are you going to do, Burge? BURGE-LUBIN. Do?