Fred. Oh? And what about you? Glad. I'll stay. Fred. Hang it, you can't do that. Glad. No. You'd rather I wasted another evening sitting with the frumps in the hotel drawing-room while you discuss odds with your sporting friend in the bar till it's too late to go anywhere. I'm having no more nights in a refrigerator, thank you. Fred. It's not the thing to leave you here. You'll only be in Garside's way. He'll be going to the House. Glad. Then he'll leave me at the hotel as he goes. Fred. You know the mater only let you loose in London because I promised to look after you. (_Good-naturedly perplexed._) You're a ghastly responsibility. Why on earth do you want to stay with Garside? Glad. Garside's amusing and the hotel isn't. Fred. I simply must sec Beversham. It means money to me. Glad. Don't let me stand in your way. Fred, (_giving way_). Well, I do like to be generous. It's the only thing that keeps my blood at normal temperature---- Peter (_off right, at telephone_). I shall shout. You may be the whip, but you'll not whip me. Important division? I know that as well as you do. No, I shan't be there. Promised? Of course I promised. I started to come. How did I know I was going to be indisposed in the Strand? Fred, (_whistling_). Whew! I wouldn't mind betting you're the indisposition, Gladys. Peter (_off_). Yes. I'm far too ill to turn out. What? No, I'm not too ill to shout. Good night. (_Opens door and enters without his hat and overcoat._) Oh, do sit down, Miss Mottram. So sorry I'd to leave you. (_Pulls left armchair before fire and pokes it._) I'll make the fire up. It's a cold night. (_Gladys sits._) Fred. Comfortable enough in here, Garside. You've snug quarters. Peter (_failing to conceal his pride in his room_). It's a beginning. (_Rising from fire._) One moment. (_Goes off left quickly, and is heard as he exits, saying:_) Mother, you let that fire go low. Mrs. G. (_off left_). I thought you'd gone out. Fred. Oh, if he's got a mother on the premises that alters the case. I don't mind your staying now. [_Peter re-enters with Mrs. Garside in a neat black dress, spectacles on, and a "Daily Telegraph" in her hand. Mrs. Garside, though sharing Peter's prosperity, has now an habitually worried look and is vaguely pathetic. She enters embarrassed._ Peter (_off-handedly, treating his mother without ceremony_). Mr. Mottram, Miss Mottram--my mother. [_Freddie bows. Gladys advances and takes hands._ Glad. How do you do, Mrs. Garside? Mrs. G. Nicely, thank you, miss. Peter (_peremptorily_). Why didn't you hear the telephone, mother? Were you asleep? Mrs. G. (_meekly_). Did it ring? I was reading the report of your speech at Battersea last night. Peter (_interested_). Oh! Where is it? I haven't had time to look at a paper to-day. Mrs. G. (_handing him the paper and pointing_). There, dear. Peter (_looking and speaking with satisfaction_). Two columns. Good. That's pretty near verbatim.