STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a, proper greedy one--takes after his father. The girls stare at him in silence. DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet. CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course. STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's got a white chest; she's a lady. [He protrudes the left-hand pocket.] DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do without. DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her. STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON.] CHRISTINE. How ghastly! DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!" [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh.] The curtain falls. ACT III It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard-room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and doom; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with commiseration. BILL. What's the time? HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any consolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he ate the man. BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of me, Harold. HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any better by marrying her? [Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.] BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. HAROLD. No, old man. BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think it! HAROLD. My dear old chap! BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so high. I see it now that--I've got over the attack. HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do apply your reason, old boy. There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen. BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the thing. HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leave her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd soon see!