[_To_ CLAUDE.] You did wait then, in spite of Theo’s orders? CLAUDE. No, not in Court. I hung about outside, with Uncle Fletcher, to hear the result. [_Sitting, with a little groan._] Oh! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. I must say, Claude, the victory hasn’t left you very cheerful. CLAUDE. Cheerful! Think of the day I’ve spent! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. _You’ve_ spent! CLAUDE. Theophila’s brother! [_Pointing into space._] The brother of Mrs. Fraser of Locheen! The brother of the witness in the box! Every eye upon me! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Drily._] I see. CLAUDE. Oh, Kate, I’ve felt this business in more ways than one. It has been a terrible lesson to me. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Smiling._] My poor Claudio! CLAUDE. [_Not looking at her._] No, don’t pity me—despise me. Kitty, how easy it is for a fellow to imperil a woman’s reputation! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Amused._] Yes, isn’t it? CLAUDE. We attach ourselves to a pretty married woman; we lounge in her drawing-room, her boudoir; we make her our toy, our pastime. Do we allow a single thought of the scandal we may involve her in to check us in our pursuit of pleasure? MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Demurely._] No, I suppose you don’t. CLAUDE. Never! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. Perhaps you had better not come to tea with me quite so frequently in the future, Claude. CLAUDE. You are right; you, and others, must see less of me. [_Turning to her._] And yet, Kate, I am not all bad! SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD _enters. He is fifty-one, amiable, pompous, egotistical, foolish._ SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Why didn’t you wait for me, Claude, my boy? CLAUDE. Sorry; my brain was reeling. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. [_Meeting_ MRS. TWELVES.] A very proper, a very satisfactory termination of this affair, Mrs. Twelves. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. It has been awfully reassuring to see you beaming in Court, Sir Fletcher. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Ha! I daresay my attitude has been remarked. Beaming; why not? I’ve had no doubt as to the result. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. No doubt of Theo’s innocence—of course not. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Innocent; that goes without saying—my niece. But the result, in any case, would have been much the same, I venture to think. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. Really? SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.