You may well ask. 'E's bent on callin' it "The 'Mind the Paint' Girl." ROPER. What's wrong with that? Everybody'll recognise who _that_ is. MRS. UPJOHN. [_Unconvinced._] 'Er name's printed on all 'er photos. FARNCOMBE. The first time I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Upjohn, a man next to me said, "Here comes the 'Mind the Paint' girl." MRS. UPJOHN. [_Cheering up._] Oh, well, p'r'aps young Morgan knows 'is own business best. Let's 'ope so, at any rate. ROPER. [_By the tea-table, beckoning to FARNCOMBE._] Farncombe---- FARNCOMBE. [_To ROPER._] Eh? [_To MRS. UPJOHN, rising._] Excuse me. [_FARNCOMBE joins ROPER, whereupon MRS. UPJOHN goes to the writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery delightedly._ ROPER. [_To FARNCOMBE, in a whisper._] Do me a favour. FARNCOMBE. Certainly. ROPER. [_Looking at his watch._] It's only half-past four. Take a turn round the Square. I've some business to talk over with the old lady. FARNCOMBE. [_Nodding to ROPER and then coming forward and addressing MRS. UPJOHN._] I-- er-- I think I'll go for a little walk and come back later on, if I may. MRS. UPJOHN. [_Contentedly._] Oh, jest as you like. FARNCOMBE. [_Moving towards the door._] In about a quarter-of-an-hour. MRS. UPJOHN. If we don't see you again, I'll tell Lil you've been 'ere. FARNCOMBE. [_At the door._] Oh, but you will; you _will_ see me again. MRS. UPJOHN. Well, please yourself and you please your dearest friend, as Lil's dad used to say. FARNCOMBE. Thank you-- thank you very much. [_He disappears, closing the door after him._ MRS. UPJOHN. [_To ROPER, looking up._] I b'lieve you gave that young man the 'int to go, Uncle. ROPER. I did; told him I wanted to talk business with you. MRS. UPJOHN. Business? [_Resuming her inspection of the trinkets._] This is a 'andsome thing Mr. Grimwood's sent 'er. ROPER. [_His hands in his trouser-pockets, contemplating MRS. UPJOHN desperately._] Upon my soul, Ma, you're a champion! MRS. UPJOHN. _Now_ wot 'ave I done! ROPER. Well, you might spread yourself a little over young Farncombe. MRS. UPJOHN. Spread myself! Why should I? ROPER. Lord Farncombe! MRS. UPJOHN. I treat 'em all alike; so does Lil. 'E's not the first title we've 'ad 'ere, not by a dozen. ROPER. No, but damn it all--! I beg your pardon---- MRS. UPJOHN. [_Beaming._] So you ought-- swearin' like a trooper. ROPER. _This_ chap's in love with her. MRS. UPJOHN. Oh, they're all in love with 'er; or _'ave_ been, one time or another. ROPER. Yes, but they're not all Farncombes and they're not all marrying men. I'm prepared to bet my boots that if Lil and young Farncombe could be thrown together----! [_Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table as MRS. UPJOHN rises and comes forward._] Here! Do talk it over. MRS. UPJOHN.