GEORGE DEDMOND enters from the hall. He is in evening dress, opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily shaved, but with neat moustaches. His eyes, clear, small, and blue-grey, have little speculation. His hair is well brushed. GEORGE. [Handing PAYNTER his coat and hat] Look here, Paynter! When I send up from the Club for my dress things, always put in a black waistcoat as well. PAYNTER. I asked the mistress, sir. GEORGE. In future--see? PAYNTER. Yes, sir. [Signing towards the window] Shall I leave the sunset, sir? But GEORGE has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and says: "Clare!" Receiving no answer, he goes in. PAYNTER switches up the electric light. His face, turned towards the curtained door, is apprehensive. GEORGE. [Re-entering] Where's Mrs. Dedmond? PAYNTER. I hardly know, sir. GEORGE. Dined in? PAYNTER. She had a mere nothing at seven, sir. GEORGE. Has she gone out, since? PAYNTER. Yes, sir--that is, yes. The--er--mistress was not dressed at all. A little matter of fresh air, I think; sir. GEORGE. What time did my mother say they'd be here for Bridge? PAYNTER. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond were coming at half-past nine; and Captain Huntingdon, too--Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton might be a bit late, sir. GEORGE. It's that now. Your mistress said nothing? PAYNTER. Not to me, sir. GEORGE. Send Burney. PAYNTER. Very good, sir. [He withdraws.] GEORGE stares gloomily at the card tables. BURNEY comes in front the hall. GEORGE. Did your mistress say anything before she went out? BURNEY. Yes, sir. GEORGE. Well? BURNEY. I don't think she meant it, sir. GEORGE. I don't want to know what you don't think, I want the fact. BURNEY. Yes, sir. The mistress said: "I hope it'll be a pleasant evening, Burney!" GEORGE. Oh!--Thanks. BURNEY. I've put out the mistress's things, sir. GEORGE. Ah! BURNEY. Thank you, sir. [She withdraws.] GEORGE. Damn! He again goes to the curtained door, and passes through. PAYNTER, coming in from the hall, announces: "General Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond." SIR CHARLES is an upright, well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains. LADY DEDMOND has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision, not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had faced many situations in many parts of the world. She is fifty five. PAYNTER withdraws. SIR CHARLES. Hullo! Where are they? H'm! As he speaks, GEORGE re-enters. LADY DEDMOND. [Kissing her son] Well, George. Where's Clare? GEORGE. Afraid she's late. LADY DEDMOND. Are we early? GEORGE. As a matter of fact, she's not in. LADY DEDMOND. Oh? SIR CHARLES. H'm! Not--not had a rumpus?