She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her wanting to cry out to every other bit, ‘Oh, glory, glory, glory!’ For a moment she hovers behind his chair. ‘Kenneth!’ she murmurs. ‘What?’ he asks, no longer aware that she is taking a liberty. ‘Nothing,’ she says, ‘just Kenneth,’ and is off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his tea is poured out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of self-preservation returns to him between two bites. ‘Don’t you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have got me.’ ‘No, no.’ On that understanding he unbends. ‘I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.’ ‘Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!’ ‘It is, woman, oh, it is,’ guardedly, ‘and it’s also a last meeting.’ ‘Yes, yes.’ ‘So here’s to you--you old mop and pail. _Ave atque vale._’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘That means Hail and Farewell.’ ‘Are you a scholar?’ ‘Being Scotch, there’s almost nothing I don’t know.’ ‘What was you to trade?’ ‘Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.’ ‘You’re a proper man to look at.’ ‘I’m generally admired.’ ‘She’s an enviable woman.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Your mother.’ ‘Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.’ Bitterly, ‘This party never even knew who his proud parents were.’ ‘Is that’--gleaming--‘is that true?’ ‘It’s gospel.’ ‘Heaven be praised!’ ‘Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don’t think you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.’ ‘I daresay it’s true we’ll never meet again, Kenneth, but--but if we do, I wonder where it will be?’ ‘Not in this world.’ ‘There’s no telling’--leering ingratiatingly--‘It might be at Berlin.’ ‘Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I’ll find you there waiting for me!’ ‘With a cup of tea for you in my hand.’ ‘Yes, and’--heartily--‘very good tea too.’ He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour. ‘Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!’ ‘All the ladies,’ slapping his knees, ‘likes to go to Paris.’ ‘Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!’ ‘You’re all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.’ He sings: ‘Mrs. Gill is very ill, Nothing can improve her But to see the Tuileries And waddle through the Louvre.’ No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, she cries: ‘You must learn me that,’ and off she goes in song also: ‘Mrs. Dowey’s very ill, Nothing can improve her.’ ‘Stop!’ cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse: