Florence. We never do when the Rovers are playing at home. I wouldn't miss seeing the match this afternoon for the best game of hockey I ever had. (_Slinging the golf-bag in a corner._) Topping round on the links, uncle. You ought to have come. Edmund. I'm a sedentary animal, Flo. Florence. Yes. And you're putting on weight. It's six years since you were here, and I'll bet you've gone up a stone a year. Edmund. In my profession a portly figure is an asset. If you have a lean and hungry look, clients think it's because you sit up late running up bills of costs. If you look comfortable, they imagine you're too busy dining to think of the six and eightpences. Florence. Yes. I never met a slacker yet who wasn't full of excellent excuses. Leo calls his poetry. You call yours business. Wait till you'll retire. You'll find it out then if you haven't a decent hobby. Edmund. But I have. Florence. It's invisible to the naked eye. You don't golf, and you don't play tennis or cricket or---- Edmund. I collect postage stamps. Florence. No wonder you're in bad condition with a secret vice like that. (_Goes to open window._) Leo (_sharply_). Don't do that. Florence. It's blazing hot. I can't imagine what you want a fire for. Leo. Uncle felt chilly. Florence. Sorry I spoke. No, I'm not. It serves him right for taking no exercise. (_Enter Elsie Whitworth, who, like Florence, is tall and muscular, but with a slim beauty which, contrasted with Florence's loose limbs and occasional gawkishness, is, at twenty-two, comparatively mature. Her indoor dress, to honour the visiting uncle, is elaborate and bright._) Elsie. Flo, Eleanor Smith wants you. Florence. I know she does. That's why I'm hiding in here. Elsie. They're a man short on the team, and---- Florence. Didn't you tell her I can't play to-day? Elsie. She thinks she can persuade you. Florence. She can't. Elsie. You'd better go and tell her so. Florence (_gathering up her golf-bag_). Blow Eleanor Smith! She thinks hockey's everything. I hate fanatics. Elsie. She's waiting for you. Florence. All right. I'll go. (_Exit Florence._) Elsie. Heard the news, Leo? Leo. Not particularly. Elsie (_excitedly_). Jack Metherell's coming in to see father before the match. Father told me. Leo. Oh? My pulse remains normal. Elsie. You've no more blood in you than a cauliflower. I'm tingling all over at the thought of being under the same roof with Metherell. Edmund. May I enquire who Mr. Metherell is? Elsie. Do you mean to say you've never heard of Metherell? Edmund. I apologise for being a Londoner. Elsie. That's no excuse. They can raise a decent crowd at Chelsea nowadays. Edmund. Indeed? I live at Sevenoaks. Elsie. You must have heard of Metherell. Edmund. No. Who is he? Leo. Metherell is a professional footballer, uncle. Edmund. Oh! Elsie (_indignantly_). A professional footballer! He's the finest centre forward in England. Edmund (_politely_). Really? Quite a great man.