Mar. (_quietly_). My engagement's broken off. Lady M. Then why do you carry a lie on your finger? Mar. I hadn't the courage to take it off--till now. (_Putting ring in coat-pocket._) Fred. You're in a bit of a hole, you know. Lady M. Gladys, if Freddie's going to be sympathetic to this young person, you and I had better retire. Conversations between young men and persons of her class are not carried on in the presence of ladies. [_Lady M. and Gladys go out, Freddie opening door. Margaret is following. He closes the door._ Fred. One moment, Miss Shaweross. Mar. Let me go, please. Fred. Yes. I say. I know I'm being assinine. I am rather an ass. But I'm a genial sort of ass, and if there's one thing I ean't stand it's one woman being beastly to another. Women are the limit. (_Rapidly, as Margaret shows impatience._) What I mean is, can I do anything for you? Mar. (_curtly_). No, thank you, Mr. Mottram. (_Trying to pass him._) Fred, (_with a stronger note of seriousness_). No, you're not going till I let you. The mater's made it hard enough. That's the worst of women. They won't be sportsmen. Mind you, I'm not blaming her. Swop positions and you'd do it yourself. But you've lost your job. That's an idiotic thing to do now. As if any footling politics were worth a tinker's cuss! Mar. Why are you keeping me here? Fred. I'm telling you, aren't I? Mar. It wasn't very lucid. Fred. What are you going to do for a living? Mar. That isn't your business, Mr. Mottram. Fred, (_seriously_). Look here, I'm not a woman eater. I'm a cheerful soul, and I hate to see people in distress. The mater's got you down. Foul blow, too. Hitting below the belt, to sack you without a character. What are you going to do about it, Miss Shaweross? Mar. I don't know yet. Fred. Let me talk to some Johnnie at the Club, and make him take you into his office. Mar. Why should you? And do you think anybody will have me without a character? Fred. I'll fix that all right. Only it'll be an office. Mar. I can typewrite. Fred. By Jove! What a brainy chap you are. Mar. I don't know why you're doing this, but I'll work my fingers to the bone if you can get me work where they'll not mind my principles. Fred. You can be a Particular Baptist, or a Neo-Confucian for all this Johnnie _'_ull care. Mar. Are you sure he's the same man in his office as in his Club? Fred. Oh, don't wet blanket me. I'm only trying. Mar. I'm sorry, Mr. Mottram. Your friend will find me a hard worker. Fred. I say, you won't overdo that part of it, will you? Mar. What part? Fred. The working. Bad form to make the pace hotter than the regular rate. Mar. I thought offices were places for hard work. Fred. I dare say you're right. I expect that's why the office men I know spend so much time at the Club, out of work's way. Mar. Mr. Mottram, why are you doing this? Fred. Oh, I'm a starved creature. Being good keeps me warm. [_Enter Timson._ Timson. Mr. Garside.