"That our generation all over the world has got out of Marillo Park. Marillo Park is a back number. It’s as out of date as the hat you wore five years ago. You couldn’t give it away to the poor, because the poor don’t wear that kind of thing, and the rich have gone on to a new fashion. Listen, old lady. The thing I’d hate worst of all for dad and you is to see you left behind, trying to put over the footlights a lot of old gags that the audience swallowed in its time, but which don’t get a laugh any more. The actor who tries to do that is pass-ay forever—" "If you’d keep to English, Bob, I should understand you a little better." Bob grew excited, laying down the law on the palm of his left hand with the forefinger of the right, while Max, all aquiver, scored the points with his terrific tail. "I’ll not only keep to English, but I’ll tell you the line to take if you want to remain the up-to-date, bright-as-a-button old lady you are." "I should be grateful." "Then here goes. Take a long breath. Keep your wig on. Put your feet in plaster casts so as not to kick." He summoned his forces to speak strongly. "If Edith was to pick out a man she wanted to marry—and I was to pick out a girl—no matter who—it would be the chic new stuff for father and you—" But the chic new stuff for father and her was not laid down on the palm of the hand for the reason that a portly shadow was seen to move within the dimness of the drawing-room. At the same time, Max’s joy was stifled by the appearance on the terrace of Dauphin, the Irish setter, who was consciously the dog _en tître_ of the master of the house. Mrs. Collingham composed herself. Edith picked up a tennis ball from the flags and jumped it on her racket. Bob put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match. It was the unwritten law of the family not to risk intimate discussion before a tribunal too august. Once he had reached the terrace, it was plain that Collingham was tired. His shoulders were hunched; his walk had no spring in it. "I’m all in," he sighed, sinking into the teakwood chair. "Poor father!" Edith dropped a hand on his shoulder. He drew it down to his lips and kissed it. "You’d like your tea, wouldn’t you?" The solicitude was his wife’s. "We were just going to have it. Bob, do find Gossip and tell him to bring it here." Bob limped into the house and out again. By the time he had returned, his father was saying: "Yes; it’s been a trying day. Among other things I’ve had to dismiss old Follett." "The devil you have!" The exclamation was so heartfelt as to turn all eyes on the young man. "Why, Bob dear," his mother asked, craftily, "what difference does it make to you?" Bob did his best to recapture a position he was not yet ready to abandon. "It may not make any difference to me, but—but how is he going to live?" "Is that your responsibility?" Edith came to her brother’s rescue. "It’s some one’s responsibility, mother."