CULVER. His title and pistol will go rattling down the ages, my dear Tranto, from generation to generation. For the moment the fellow's name stinks, but only for the moment. In the nostrils of his grandson (third baronet), it will have a most sweet odour. MRS. CULVER. But all this is perfectly shocking. CULVER. Now I hope you comprehend my emotion, darling. MRS. CULVER But surely there are some _nice_ names on the List. CULVER. Of course. There have to be some nice names, for the sake of the psychological effect on the public mind on New Year's Day. The public looks for a good name, or for a name it can understand. It skims down the List till it sees one. Then it says: 'Ah! That's not so bad!' Then it skims down further till it sees another one, and it says again: 'Ah! That's not so bad!' And so on. So that with about five or six decent names you can produce the illusion that after all the List is really rather good. HILDEGARDE. The strange thing to me is that decent people condescend to receive titles at all. MRS. CULVER. Bravo, Hildegarde! Yes, if it's so bad as you make out, Arthur, why _do_ decent people take Honours? CULVER. I'll tell you. Decent people have wives, and their wives lead them by the nose. That's why decent people take Honours. MRS. CULVER. Well, I think it's monstrous! CULVER. So it is. I've been a Conservative all my life; I am a Conservative. I swear I am. And yet, now when I look back, I'm amazed at the things I used to do. Why, once I actually voted against a candidate who stood for the reform of the House of Lords. Seems incredible. This war is changing my ideas. (_Suddenly, after a slight pause_.) I'm dashed if I don't join the Labour party and ask Ramsay Macdonald to lunch. _Enter_ Parlourmaid, _back_. PARLOURMAID. You are wanted on the telephone, madam. MRS. CULVER. Oh, Arthur! (_Pats him on the shoulder as she goes out_.) (_Exit_ Mrs. Culver _and_ Parlourmaid, _back_.) CULVER. Hildegarde, go and see if you can hurry up dinner. HILDEGARDE. No one could. CULVER. Never mind, go and see. (_Exit_ Hildegarde, _back_.) John, just take these keys, and get some cigars out of the cabinet, you know, Partagas. JOHN. Oh! Is it a Partaga night? (_Exit, back_.) CULVER (_watching the door close_). Tranto, we are conspirators. TRANTO. You and I? CULVER. Yes. But we must have no secrets. Who wrote that article in _The Echo_? Who is Sampson Straight? TRANTO (_temporising, lightly_). You remind me of the man with the pistol. CULVER. Is it Hildegarde? TRANTO. How did you guess? CULVER. Well; first, I knew my daughter couldn't be the piffling lunatic who does your war cookery articles. Second, I asked myself: What reason has she for pretending to be that piffling lunatic? Third, I have an exceedingly high opinion of my daughter's brains. Fourth, she gave a funny start just now when I mentioned the idea of Sampson Straight going to the Tower. TRANTO. Perhaps I ought to explain--