SCENE: _A drawing-room at_ LORD FRANCIS ETCHINGHAM’S _house in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. An Adam room, with bright chintzes on the furniture, photographs on the chimney-piece and the piano, and a great many flowers. There is an archway at the back, leading into another drawing-room, and it is through this that visitors are introduced by the butler. On the left is a large bow window, and on the right a door leading into the library._ LORD _and_ LADY FRANCIS. LORD FRANCIS ETCHINGHAM _is a man of fifty, of the middle height, rather bald, with an amiable, weak face. He is a good-natured person, anxious to do his best in all things and to all people so long as he is not bored. He wants everything to go smoothly. He has a comfortable idea of his own capacity. Reduced circumstances have drawn him into affairs, and he regards himself as a fine man of business._ LADY FRANCIS _is a handsome and well-preserved woman of the same age as her husband, with dyed red hair; she has a massive, almost an imposing, presence, and she is admirably gowned. She treats her husband with good-humoured scorn, aware of his foibles, but amused rather than annoyed by them. When the curtain rises_ FRANCIS ETCHINGHAM _is a prey to the liveliest vexation. He is walking nervously across the room, while his wife, with a thin smile, stands quietly watching him. With a gesture of irritation he flings himself into a chair._ ETCHINGHAM. Why the dickens didn’t you tell me last night, Angela? LADY FRANCIS. [_Smiling._] I had no wish to disturb my night’s rest. ETCHINGHAM. Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. It’s incomprehensible to me that you should have slept like a top. I couldn’t have closed my eyes the whole night. LADY FRANCIS. I know. And you would have taken excellent care that I shouldn’t close mine either. ETCHINGHAM. I should have thought I had enough to do without being pestered with a foolish woman’s matrimonial difficulties. LADY FRANCIS. [_With a laugh._] You really have a very detached way of looking at things, Frank. No one would imagine, to hear you speak, that the foolish woman in question was your daughter. ETCHINGHAM. Really, Angela, I must beg you not to make this a subject of flippancy. LADY FRANCIS. [_Good-humouredly._] Well, what do you propose to do? ETCHINGHAM. [_Flying out of his chair._] Do? What do you expect me to do? You tell me that Kate came home at twelve o’clock last night without a stitch of clothing.... LADY FRANCIS. My dear, if I told you that I was most unwarrantably distorting the truth. ETCHINGHAM. [_Irritably correcting himself._] In a ball dress, with an opera cloak on--without her luggage, without even a dressing-case--and informs you that she’s left her husband.... It’s absurd. LADY FRANCIS. Quite absurd. And so unnecessarily dramatic. ETCHINGHAM. And when’s she going home? LADY FRANCIS.