JUDITH: You should, darling, really. It’s so bad for your skin to leave things about on it. (_She proceeds to take off her goloshes._) SOREL: Clara says Amy’s got toothache. JUDITH: Poor dear! There’s some oil of cloves in my medicine cupboard. Who is Amy? SOREL: The scullery-maid, I think. JUDITH: How extraordinary! She doesn’t look Amy a bit, does she? Much more Flossie.—Give me a cigarette. [_SOREL gives her a cigarette and lights it._ Delphiniums are those stubby red flowers, aren’t they? SIMON: No, darling, they’re tall and blue. JUDITH: Yes, of course. The red ones are somebody’s name—Asters, that’s it. I knew it was something opulent. I do hope Clara has remembered about the Japanese room. SOREL: Japanese room! JUDITH: Yes; I told her to put some flowers in it and take Simon’s flannels out of the wardrobe drawer. SOREL: So did I. JUDITH (_ominously_): Why? SOREL (_airily_): I’ve asked Richard Greatham down for the week-end—I didn’t think you’d mind. JUDITH: Mind! How dared you do such a thing? SOREL: He’s a diplomatist. JUDITH: That makes it much worse. We must wire and put him off at once. SOREL: It’s too late. JUDITH: Well, we’ll tell Clara to say we’ve been called away. SOREL: That would be extremely rude, and, anyhow, I _want_ to see him. JUDITH: You mean to stand there in cold blood and tell me you’ve asked a complete stranger down for the week-end, and that you want to see him! SOREL: I’ve often done it before. JUDITH: I fail to see how that helps matters. Where’s he going to sleep? SOREL: The Japanese room. JUDITH: Oh, no, he isn’t—Sandy Tyrell is sleeping in it. SIMON: There now! What did I tell you? SOREL: Sandy—what? JUDITH: Tyrell, dear. SIMON: Why didn’t you tell us, Mother? JUDITH: I did. I’ve talked of nothing but Sandy Tyrell for days. I adore Sandy Tyrell. SIMON: You’ve never mentioned him. SOREL: Who is he, Mother? JUDITH: He’s a perfect darling, and madly in love with me—at least, it isn’t me really, it’s my Celebrated Actress glamour—but it gives me a divinely cosy feeling. I met him at Nora Trent’s. SOREL: Mother, I wish you’d give up this sort of thing. JUDITH: What exactly do you mean by “this sort of thing,” Sorel? SOREL: You know perfectly well what I mean. JUDITH: Are you attempting to criticise me? SOREL: I should have thought you’d be above encouraging silly callow young men who are infatuated by your name. JUDITH: That may be true, but I shall allow nobody but myself to say it. I hoped you’d grow up a good daughter to me, not a critical aunt. SOREL: It’s so terribly cheap. JUDITH: Cheap! Nonsense! What about your diplomatist? SOREL: Surely that’s a little different, dear? JUDITH: If you mean that because you happen to be a vigorous _ingénue_ of nineteen you have the complete monopoly of any amorous adventure there may be about, I feel it my firm duty to disillusion you. SOREL: But, Mother——