NANCY. Keep young, Jim. (_She kisses him and he takes her in his arms._) _Enter BENHAM noiselessly._ BENHAM (_addressing the ceiling_). I beg your pardon, sir. (_They disengage hastily._) But there’s a young woman called from one of the newspapers. I think she desires an interview for the journal with which she is connected. Or something of that nature, sir. (_He hands BROXOPP her card._) BROXOPP. Ah, yes. Well, show her up then. BENHAM. Yes, sir. [_He goes out._ BROXOPP (_indignantly_). What I say is this, Nancy. If a man can’t kiss his own wife, on his own sofa, without being interrupted, he isn’t living in a home at all; he’s living in an hotel. Now, I suppose that the dignified gentleman who has just left us despises us from the bottom of his heart. His Grace would never have been so vulgar as to kiss his _own_ wife on the sofa. NANCY. It doesn’t matter very much, Jim, does it? And I expect we shall get used to him. BROXOPP. I don’t know why we ever had the fellow—except that Master Jack thought it went better with Eton and Oxford. Eton and Oxford—was that your idea or mine? NANCY. Yours, dear. BROXOPP. Oh! Well, the only thing they taught him there was that his father’s tie was the wrong shape. NANCY (_carried back as she looks up at the picture_). There never was a better baby than Jack. BROXOPP (_looking at the picture too_). Yes, he used to like my tie in those days. He was never so happy as when he was playing with it. Funny how they change when they grow up. (_Looking at his watch_) What are you doing this morning? NANCY (_getting up_). All right, darling. I’m going. I know you like being alone for interviews. BROXOPP (_going to the door with her_). But you must come in, Nancy, at the end. That went well last time. (_Quoting_) “Ah,” said Mr. Broxopp, as a middle-aged but still beautiful woman glided into the room, “here is my wife. My wife,” he went on, with a tender glance at the still beautiful woman, “to whom I owe all my success.” As he said these words—— NANCY. Oh, I expect this one won’t write that sort of rubbish. BROXOPP (_indignantly_). Rubbish? I don’t call that rubbish. NANCY. Well, then, nonsense, darling. Only—I rather like nonsense. (_NANCY goes out. Left alone, the GREAT BROXOPP gets ready. He spreads out his tie, fingers his buttonhole, and sees that a volume of Shakespeare is well displayed on a chair. Then he sits down at his desk and is discovered by MISS JOHNS hard at it._) BENHAM (_announcing_). Miss Johns. (_BENHAM goes out, leaving MISS JOHNS behind; a nervous young woman of about thirty, with pince-nez. But BROXOPP is being too quick for her. He has whisked the receiver off, and is busy saying, “Quite so,” and “Certainly, half a million bottles,” to the confusion of the girl at the Exchange._)