[_Rising and walking away to the right._] 'E's so 'orribly jealous. When Lil tells 'im 'oo was at the party, there'll be a frightful kick-up! ROPER. [_Falling into despondency._] Oh, I dare say I'm a fool for my pains, Ma. Nothing'll come of it. [_Rising and pacing the room again._] Farncombe's as shy as a school-girl; he'd be on a desert island with a pretty woman for a month without squeezing her hand. MRS. UPJOHN. [_In an altered tone._] Uncle. ROPER. Hullo! MRS. UPJOHN. [_Thoughtfully._] _I_ shouldn't raise any objection, bear in mind, if Lil could be weaned away from the Captain and took a fancy to young Farncombe. ROPER. Objection! MRS. UPJOHN. [_Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table._] All said an' done, to be Lady F., with no need to work if you're not disposed to, is better than bein' Mrs. Captain Jeyes an' 'avin' to linger on the stage, p'r'aps, till you drop, to 'elp keep the pot a' boilin'. [_Opening her eyes widely._] Lady F.! ROPER. [_Coming to her._] And Countess of Godalming when his father dies. MRS. UPJOHN. I s'pose there'd be any amount of unpleasantness with the fam'ly? ROPER. [_Disdainfully._] The family! MRS. UPJOHN. There's generally a rumpus in sech cases. ROPER. Why, Ma, these tiptop families ought to feel jolly grateful that we're mixing the breed for them a bit. Look at the two lads who've married Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail-- Kinterton and Glenroy; and Fawcus-- Sir George Fawcus-- Eva Shafto's husband; they haven't a chin or a forehead between 'em, and their chests are as narrow as a ten-inch plank. MRS. UPJOHN. Quite true. ROPER. Farncombe himself, _he's_ inclined to be weedy. I maintain it's a grand thing for our English nobs that their slips of sons have taken to marrying young women of the stamp of Maidie Trevail and Gwennie Harker-- or Lil; keen-witted young women full of the joy of life, with strong frames, beautiful hair and fine eyes, and healthy pink gums and big white teeth. Sneer at the Pandora girls! Great Scot, it's my belief that the Pandora girls'll be the salvation of the aristocracy in this country in the long run! [_CAPTAIN NICHOLAS JEYES lounges in. He is a man of about five-and-thirty, already slightly grey-haired, who has gone to seed. ROPER sits in the chair in the middle of the room rather guiltily and MRS. UPJOHN puts on a propitiatory grin._ JEYES. [_Nodding to MRS. UPJOHN and ROPER as he closes the door._] Afternoon, Mrs. Upjohn. How'r'you, Roper? MRS. UPJOHN. Ah, Captain! ROPER. Hullo, Nicko! JEYES. [_Advancing._] Lily not in? MRS. UPJOHN. No; she's in Fitzroy Street, settin' to Morgan. JEYES. [_Frowning._] Why didn't she ask me to go with her? MRS. UPJOHN. Dun'no, I'm sure. She's took Miss Birch. JEYES. [_With a grunt._] Oh? [_Looking round._] Flowers. MRS. UPJOHN. 'Eaps of 'em, ain't there? ROPER. [_Jerking his head towards the writing-table._] Yes, and some nice presents over here. MRS. UPJOHN.