Florence (_looking through window_). Well, I won't. (_Exit Florence. Austin sits down in desk-chair, staring at the wall, blankly._) Austin. Metherell! (_Enter from the ambulance-room Dr. Wells, a young sporting doctor, nice-looking, with dark hair and moustache. He is passing through to the outer door. Austin starts._) Oh, it's you, Doctor. You startled me. Wells. I beg your pardon, Mr. Whitworth. Austin. My fault for day-dreaming. (_Rising._) Ready for contingencies in your torture chamber? Wells. All clear. You look rather like a contingency yourself. Austin. I'm--I'm nervous. Wells (_sympathetically_). It's a trying occasion. Don't you keep a bottle of whisky in that desk? Austin (_smiling_). Don't you know I do? Wells (_grinning_). I have some recollection of it. Take my strictly unprofessional advice and have a good strong nip. Austin (_at desk cupboard_). Have one yourself? Wells. No, thanks. I'm going to look out for accidents. Austin. Ghoul! Wells. Every man to his trade. (_Exit Wells. Austin mixes drink. Enter Edmund._) Edmund. Hullo! That's bad, Austin. Austin. Doctor's orders, Edmund. Will you? Edmund. No, thanks. Austin. How's the game? Edmund. Rowdy. You're not watching it? Austin. No. I'm praying for it. Edmund. So far the gods have heard your prayer. Austin. Metherell hasn't. I hear he's playing his best game against us. Edmund. I'm no judge. Austin. Are you tired of it already? Edmund. I find it just a trifle wearing. Perhaps I'm tod old to appreciate a new sensation. The excitement's too concentrated. And the noise! I'm deafened. Austin. It's quiet enough in here. Those windows are double. Edmund. They need to be. Austin, about Elsie. Austin. Yes? Edmund. And this footballer. You'll have to put your foot down. Austin. I don't flatter myself I shall have much to say in the matter. Edmund. Hang it, you're her father. Austin. You heard what she said. Edmund. To my blank astonishment, I did. Austin. Oh, I'm used to it. Edmund. Pull yourself together, Austin. You've drifted till your authority's flouted by your own children. Austin. You know, Edmund, that sort of talk was all right in our day, but my children belong to the new generation, and the new generation regards parental authority as a played-out superstition. Edmund. Nonsense. Be supine and they'll tread on you. You've only your own slackness to blame for it if you're flouted. Austin. That, again, is the view of our time. We're old codgers to-day, Edmund, you and I. Edmund. Confound it, Austin, you're not going to take this lying down! Austin. No. I shall fight the fight of my generation against the next. I shall lose, of course. Edmund. You mustn't lose. Austin. Why should I be an exception to a natural law? Edmund. Natural law! Natural laziness, you mean. You've simply let your children get out of hand through sheer weakness, and if you don't care to exert yourself to save Elsie from a gross _mésalliance_, I will.