Pray don't think of going! MR. JOSEPH LEBANON. Let it blow over! EARL OF DRUMDURRIS. My dear sir! MR. JOSEPH LEBANON. Oh, very well, you're losing the best of the ball. [THE MUNKITTRICK and MISS MUNKITTRICK go out, followed by EGIDIA and DRUMDURRIS. IMOGEN, LADY EUPHEMIA, and BROOKE enter hastily, each carrying a fragment of MISS MUNKITTRICK's dress.] MR. JOSEPH LEBANON. [Taking the remnants.] Allow me--allow me--my affair. [IMOGEN, LADY EUPHEMIA, and BROOKE go out. LEBANON crams the pieces of MISS MUNKITTRICK'S dress under a chair cushion.] MR. JOSEPH LEBANON. Let it blow over. Where's my partner? [He goes out. MACPHAIL enters with MRS. GAYLUSTRE upon his arm.] MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Staying out is infinitely preferable to dancing, is it not, dear Sir Colin? MACPHAIL. Aye. I hate dancing. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. But your dear mother says you resemble some beautiful wild thing when you dance the Strathspey. MACPHAIL. That's because I hate it; the Strathspey's enough to make a lad wild. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Witty boy! MACPHAIL. Eh, do you think I'm naturally quick? MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Quick? MACPHAIL. Quick in my understanding? MRS. GAYLUSTRE. I'm sure of it. MACPHAIL. Eh, I'm glad you think I'm quick. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Why? MACPHAIL. Because Ballocheevin--that's our place, you understand--Ballocheevin is enough to soften a lad's brain. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Then why hide your light at Ballocheevin? MACPHAIL. Well, the Macphails have lived there since eleven hundred and two. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. How romantic! MACPHAIL. So mother's just got out of the way of moving. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Charming attachment to an old home. MACPHAIL. Aye, it's old. It hasn't been papered and done up since Robert Bruce stayed with us. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Robert Bruce! MACPHAIL. Aye--just from a Saturday till Monday, I'm thinking. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. There must be a legend attached to every stone of Ballocheevin. MACPHAIL. Aye, it's interesting--but it requires papering. I am so tired of Ballocheevin. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. But you love the rugged country, the vast overwhelming hills, and the placid lochs? MACPHAIL. Mother's been telling you that. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Isn't it true? MACPHAIL. Eh, I am just weary of my native scenery. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. But what about the misty chasms of Ben-Muchty? MACPHAIL. That's an awfully damp place. That's where I caught my bad cold. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. And the gray shore of Loch-na-Doich? Your mother says you adore it. MACPHAIL. Eh, I am sick of Loch-na-Doich. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. And your feet don't ache to press the heather? MACPHAIL. It's when they're _on_ the heather my feet ache. It's poor walking, heather. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Then you don't watch the sun rise from the jagged summit of Ben-na-fechan? MACPHAIL. [Cunningly.] Eh, but I do though, every day when I'm at home. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. But why? MACPHAIL. To get away from mother. MRS. GAYLUSTRE. Poor boy! MACPHAIL. [Reflectively.] I've been thinking----