_Car._ Oh, sir, my father is an aged man, and his words are wise. Be led by him and you will prosper. _Mrs Eff._ The young man is not of those who _can_ detach themselves from the sordid world. _Tom._ I beg your pardon. The young man is one of those who have detached themselves from the sordid world, so completely that he can’t get back again! _Enter COLONEL O’FIPP._ _O’Fi._ Now, if you’ve got the receipt---- Mrs. Effingham! I’m rejoiced to see ye! Miss Caroline--Bulstrode--Mr. Effingham, my aged friend! Allow me to inthrojuice ye to a very particular friend and ould comrade--Major-General Arthur Fitzpatrick. (_TOM bows._) Foightin’ Fitz we called him. _All._ What! _O’Fi._ Major-General Arthur Fitzpatrick. (_TOM bows._) _Mrs Eff._ (_crossing to TOM_). Of the 29th Madras Native Infantry? _Tom_ (_puzzled_). I have no doubt that was my regiment. _Mrs. Eff._ Viper! (_CAROLINE faints in her fathers arms._) _Tom._ What! _Mrs. Eff._ Viper! Deliberate and systematic viper! (_Goes to CAROLINE._) _Bul._ Poetic fiend in human shape, despair! _Mr. Eff._ Blighter of fond and faithful hopes, behold your handiwork! _Tom._ Why, what have I done? _O’Fi._ (_turning up his sleeves_). Ay, sorr, what have ye done? Answer me that. Come, Gineral, no evasion, or by the blood of the O’Fipps---- (_Turning up sleeves._) [_CAROLINE revives, and MR. EFFINGHAM and BULSTRODE turn up their sleeves._ _Car._ No, no--don’t hurt him. I am better now. (_To BULSTRODE, who is turning up his sleeves and advancing in a threatening attitude._) Brother, stand off! (_Throws herself between TOM and the others._) Stand off--father, mother, brother, all! I have loved this man--ay, and I love him still. (_To TOM._) Arthur--my poet-soldier--by our old vows--by the old poetic fire that burns in _your_ heart and kindled mine, tell them--tell _me_--that you can explain everything. (_Falls on her knees to him._) _Tom._ Upon my word, I shouldn’t like to undertake to do that. Why, I never saw you before in all my life. _Mrs. Eff._ Despair that plea--it cannot serve you, sir. Your letters bind you--we are so advised. _Tom._ But it can’t be--it’s impossible. _Car._ Oh, Arthur, I am told by those who understand these things that you have indeed compromised yourself to the extent required by our common law. But you will not--oh, you will _not_ compel me to bring our sacred loves into Court. You are a poet--a great, great poet--you will be faithful--you will be true. (_Kneels._) _Mr. Eff._ (_kneels_). Oh, sir, do not compel us to lay bare the workings of her young affections--do not force us to bring her very heartstrings into Court, that ribald minds may play upon them! _Bul._ (_gloomily_). To the tune of £5000. _Enter WHIPPLE._