Not _bourgeois_, then! No, no! Young and self-conscious! Fancy getting red and embarrassed because a gardener saw you looking affectionate!... Dear, dear boy!... Now sit down again and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are precious—not _precieux_—precious in the true sense of the word.... Don’t you hate this modern artistic jargon? BILL. Rather! LADY PATRICIA. Listen.... (_She recites._) _A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,_ _Far off against the orient green and cold;_ _Silence declines upon these branches old;_ _The level land is still;_ _The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows_ _The delicate beauty of the sunset rose;_ _And pensive grey encroaches on the gold._ Tenderly coloured, are they not? BILL. Yours? LADY PATRICIA. Mine. BILL. Ripping! LADY PATRICIA. Ripping.... Oh, how unpleasant! Say that other word instead. BILL. What word? LADY PATRICIA. I don’t quite know. Something to do with bottles. BILL. Clinking? LADY PATRICIA. No.... Something to do with wine.... BILL. Oh! you mean—corking. LADY PATRICIA. Yes, corking. BILL. Right-ho! LADY PATRICIA. Thank you, dear.... And so you like my lines? BILL. They’re corking. And so’s your voice when you read ’em. LADY PATRICIA. (_Dreamily._) I write corking verses, and I read them with a corking voice. (_With passion._) Oh, Bill! Oh, my dear—— BILL. Yes? LADY PATRICIA. How I wish that you and I were alone on a little island in the Ægean Archipelago!... Hush! (_The sound of a motor in the distance._) Do you hear? A motor-car coming up the drive! You can see if you look through the branches there. (_Points to the left._) Be careful, dear. Don’t let any one see you. BILL. (_Looking over the rail of the platform._) Great Scott! LADY PATRICIA. Yes? BILL. It’s the mater’s car, and—— (_The sound of the motor stops._) LADY PATRICIA. It’s stopping! Oh, Bill—— BILL. The mater and Michael, and the Dean—and who’s the jolly-looking girl? LADY PATRICIA. With a face like a naughty boy’s? BILL. Yes. LADY PATRICIA. That must be Clare Lesley. Michael has been very kind to her lately. He is trying to give her a serious view of life. BILL. I say, you don’t mean to tell me that’s Clare, the Dean’s daughter? Why, I thought she was a flapper! LADY PATRICIA. A flapper?... BILL. Yes. When last I saw her, a little more than a year ago, her skirts weren’t much below her knees, and—— LADY PATRICIA. Flapper.... What a strange word! How do you spell it? With a “ph”? BILL. No, with a double p. Hullo! (_He draws back._) LADY PATRICIA. What is it? BILL. They’re all coming here! LADY PATRICIA. No! BILL. They are, by Jove! The whole crowd. What shall we do? LADY PATRICIA. Your mother and Michael mustn’t find you here. You must fly! BILL. That’s all very well. But where can I go to? They’re bound to spot me if I get down the steps. LADY PATRICIA.