_Dora_ (_rousing herself and selecting an egg_). It is my father that will be missing his train entirely, and it is his son that would this minute be sleeping the blessed daylight away had I not let fall upon him a sponge that I had picked out of the cold, cold water. _Gertrude._ It is a flapper you are, Dora Smith-Hybrow. _Dora._ It is a flapper you will never be again, Gertrude Smith-Hybrow, though you be after doing your queer best to look like one. _Mrs. S.-H._ Whisht! Is it the time for loose talk, with the wind rising, rising, and the rain falling, falling, and the price of butter up another threepence this blessed morning? [_They all three recommence keening. Enter_ Mr. Smith-Hybrow _followed by_ Cyril. _Mr. S.-H._ (_staunching a gash in his chin_). Is it not a hard thing for a man to be late for his breakfast and the rain falling, falling, and the wind rising, rising. It's destroyed I am with the loss of blood and no food in my stomach would keep the life in a flea. [_Sits in his place and opens his letters savagely._ Cyril, _a cadaverous youth, stares gloomily into the depths of the marmalade._ _Cyril_ (_dreamily_). There's gold and gold and gold--caverns of gold. And there's a woman with hair of gold and eyes would pick the locks of a man's soul, and long shining hands like pale seaweed. Is it not a terrible thing that a man would have to go to the City when there is a woman with gold hair waiting for him in the marmalade pot--waiting to draw him down into the cold, cold water? _Dora._ Is it another spongeful you are wanting, Cyril Smith-Hybrow, and myself destroyed entirely waiting for the marmalade? [Cyril _blushes, passes the marmalade, sits down languidly and selects an egg._ Mrs. S.-H. _pours out the coffee and resumes her keening._ _Mr. S.-H._ (_glaring at her_). Is it not a nice thing for the wife of a respectable City stockbroker to sit at the breakfast-table making a noise like that of a cow that is waiting to be milked? _Mrs. S.-H._ (_hurt_). It is keening I am. _Gertrude_ (_passing him "The Morning Post"_). Is it not enough that the price of butter is up another threepence this blessed day, and the wind rising, rising, and the rain falling, falling? _Mr. S.-H._ It is destroyed we shall all be entirely. _Cyril_ (_gazing into the depths of his egg_). There was a strange queer dream I was after having the night that has gone. It was on the rocks I was.... _Mr. S.-H._ (_glaring at the market reports_). It is on the rocks we shall all be. _Cyril._ ... on the rocks I was by the sea-shore ... _Dora_ (_slightly hysterically_). With the wind rising, rising?