SHEILA. } Of course not. Those vulgarities are out of } date. } [_Together._] EDGAR. } Deuce take it, Leonard! LEONARD. I only want to know. I want to play my part like an English gentleman. Kissing in public--except the hand--is an atrocity, but if it has to be done it should be done firmly. No hesitations, no scrimmages. In fact there should always be a rehearsal. Very well. No kissing. Now about gloves-- EDGAR. Yes, what are you going to wear, Leonard? LEONARD. I shall wear a grey morning coat, trousers of about the same colour but exquisitely striped, white waistcoat, grey hat with narrow black band, an orchid--the best that money can buy--if anyone will lend me the money-- EDGAR. Here, I say-- LEONARD. I know what you are going to say--that I ought just to dress up to you. SHEILA. Oh! he won't be sensible. I hope you won't go and spoil things. LEONARD. Spoil things? [_He reflects for a moment._] Confess that you would like me to go away and telegraph that I can't come to the wedding. SHEILA. Oh! No. But I want everything to be nice. EDGAR. Do the thing properly, Leonard. LEONARD. Properly! I want to do things more than properly. I meant to write an ode on the marriage morning. I'm afraid I shan't have time for more than a sonnet. I've made a start. I've got a first line: 'The jocund sun has tinged the mountain tops'-- Good word 'jocund'. The difficulty is to get three good rhymes to tops. Of course it might be crest--mountain crest--but I don't like it. It's poetical. That's the worst of poetry now-a-days; you mustn't use poetical words. EDGAR. There's no getting any sense out of you, but look here: Sheila and I want you to be decent over this affair. Just get the right sort of thing and a new hat, won't you? I'll tell you what to get if you like. LEONARD. My dear fellow I have the sense of clothes. SHEILA. He knows well enough, Edgar. EDGAR. Come on then. Is mother downstairs? ADA. I think so. Leonard, you might open the window; the room's close. LEONARD. Now, Ada, you know it's not my business to open the window. I always leave this kind of thing to experts. ADA. Well, ring for Mary. LEONARD. Oh! no. I'll do it. [_He goes rather hastily to open the window. The others go out. He stands looking out of the window. MARY BROOME enters dubiously. She looks round the room and presently sees him. She advances quickly towards him and he turns round._] LEONARD. Oh! I say! MARY. You're packing a bag. What for? You can't be going away? LEONARD. Now you mustn't stop here. Anyone may come in. MARY. After what I told you, you're going away? You couldn't do that. LEONARD. And, look here! My mother's talking about having missed a photograph--my photograph. You've never, surely-- MARY. Yes, I took it. LEONARD. Oh! but that's madness. MARY. I thought I had a right to it. LEONARD. Well, get away, that's a good girl. We'll talk about things again.