The scene is a conservatory built and decorated in Moorish style, in the house of the RT. HON. SIR JULIAN TWOMBLEY, M.P., Chesterfield Gardens, London. A fountain is playing, and tall palms lend their simple elegance to the elaborate Algerian magnificence of the place. The drawing-rooms are just beyond the curtained entrances. It is a May afternoon. BROOKE TWOMBLEY, a good-looking but insipid young man of about two-and-twenty, faultlessly dressed for the afternoon, enters, and sits dejectedly, turning over some papers. BROOKE TWOMBLEY. I've done it. Such an afternoon's work--what! [Reading.] "Schedule of the Debts of Mr. Brooke Twombley. [Turning over sheet after sheet.] Tradesmen. Betting Transactions. Baccarat. Miscellaneous Amusements. Sundries. Extras." [PROBYN, a servant in powder and livery, is crossing the conservatory, when he sees BROOKE.] PROBYN. Oh, Mr. Brooke. BROOKE TWOMBLEY. [Slipping the schedule into his pocket.] Eh! PROBYN. I didn't know you were in, sir. Her ladyship told me to give you this, Mr. Brooke--quietly. [He hands BROOKE a letter which he has taken from his pocket.] BROOKE TWOMBLEY. [Glancing at the envelope.] The Mater. Thank you. [A little cough is heard. He looks toward the drawing-room.] Is anyone there? PROBYN. Mrs. Gaylustre, sir. BROOKE TWOMBLEY. The dressmaker! What does she want? PROBYN. She told Phipps, Miss Imogen's maid, sir, that she was anxious to see the effect of her ladyship's and Miss Imogen's gowns when they get back from the Drawing-Room. BROOKE TWOMBLEY. You should take her upstairs. PROBYN. Beg your pardon, Mr. Brooke, but we've always understood that when Mrs. Gaylustre calls in the morning she's a dressmaker, and when she calls in the afternoon she's a lady. BROOKE TWOMBLEY. Oh, very well; it's awfully confusing. [PROBYN goes out. BROOKE reads the letter.] "My sweet child. For heaven's sake let me have your skeddle, or whatever you call your list of debts, directly. I'll do my best to get you out of your scrape, though _how_ I can't think. I'm desperately short of money, and altogether--as my poor dear father used to say--things are as blue as old Stilton. If your pa finds out what a muddle I'm in, I fear he'll throw up public life and bury us in the country, and then good-by to my dear boy's and girl's prospects. So if I contrive to clear you once more, don't do it again, my poppet, or you'll break the heart of your loving mother, Kitty Twombley." The Mater's a brick--what! But I wonder if she has any notion how much it tots up to. [He places the letter upon the back of a large saddle-bag arm-chair while he takes out the schedule.] BROOKE TWOMBLEY. Three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six, nought, two. What! [PROBYN enters.] PROBYN. A young man wants to see you, Mr. Brooke. BROOKE TWOMBLEY. Who is it? PROBYN. No card, sir--and rather queerly dressed. Says he has a wish to shake hands with you on the door-step. BROOKE TWOMBLEY.