TRANTO. What if I did? John can't expect to discover the whole truth about everything at one go. He's found out it's a jolly strange world. That ought to satisfy him for to-day. Besides, he only asked me about my uncles. He said nothing about my uncles' wives. You know what women are--I mean wives. HILDEGARDE. Oh, I do! Mother is a marvellous specimen. TRANTO. I haven't told you the worst. HILDEGARDE. I hope no man ever will. TRANTO. The worst is this. Auntie Joe actually thinks _I_'m Sampson Straight. HILDEGARDE. She doesn't! TRANTO. She does. She has an infinite capacity for belief. The psychology of the thing is as follows. My governor died a comparatively poor man. A couple of hundred thousand pounds, more or less. Whereas Uncle Joe is worth five millions--and Uncle Joe was going to adopt me, when Auntie Joe butted in and married him. She used to arrange the flowers for his first wife. Then she arranged _his_ flowers. Then she became a flower herself and he had to gather her. Then she had twins, and my chances of inheriting that five millions (_he imitates the noise of a slight explosion_) short-circuited! Well, I didn't care a volt--not a volt! I've got lots of uncles left who are quite capable of adopting me. But I didn't really want to be adopted at all. To adopt me was only part of Uncle Joe's political game. It was my _Echo_ that he was after adopting. But I'd sooner run my _Echo_ on my own than inherit Uncle Joe's controlling share in twenty-five daily papers, seventy-one weekly papers, six monthly magazines, and three independent advertising agencies. I know I'm a poor man, but I'm quite ready to go on facing the world bravely with my modest capital of a couple of hundred thousand pounds. Only Auntie Joe can't understand that. She's absolutely convinced that I have a terrific grudge against her and her twins, and that in order to gratify that grudge I myself personally write articles against all her most sacred ideals under the pseudonym of Sampson Straight. I've pointed out to her that I'm a newspaper proprietor, and no newspaper proprietor ever _could_ write. No use! She won't listen. HILDEGARDE. Then she thinks you're a liar. TRANTO. Oh, not at all. Only a journalist. But you perceive the widening rift in the family lute. (_A silence_.) Pardon this glimpse into the secret history of the week. HILDEGARDE (_formidably_). Mr. Tranto, you and I are sitting on the edge of a volcano. TRANTO. We are. I like it. Thrilling, and yet so warm and cosy. HILDEGARDE. I used to like it once. But I don't think I like it any more. TRANTO. Now please don't let Auntie Joe worry you. She's my cross, not yours.