JACK (_seeing the opening_). Haven’t had them? Have I ever stopped having them? Weren’t they rammed down my throat at school till I was sick of them? Did they ever stop pulling my leg about them at Oxford? Can I go anywhere without seeing that beastly poster—a poster of me—me, if you please—practically naked—telling everybody that I love my Beans. Don’t I see my name—Broxopp, Broxopp, Broxopp—everywhere in every size of lettering—on every omnibus, on every hoarding; spelt out in three colours at night—B-R-O-X-O-P-P—until I can hardly bear the sight of it. Free bottles given away on my birthday, free holidays for Broxopp mothers to celebrate my coming of age! I’m not a man at all. I’m just a living advertisement of Beans. BROXOPP (_quietly_). I think that’s putting it a little too strongly, Jack. (_NANCY presses his hand and strokes it gently._) JACK. I know it is, but that’s how I’ve felt sometimes. Of course I know that if it hadn’t been for Broxopp, I’d be sitting on a high stool and lucky to earn thirty bob a week. But you must see my side of it, Dad. I want to paint. How can any one called Broxopp be taken seriously as an artist? How can I make any sort of name with all those Beans and babies overshadowing me and keeping me out of the light? I don’t say I’m ever going to be a great painter, but how do I stand a chance as things are? “Have you seen the new Broxopp?” What’s that going to mean to anybody? Not that I’ve painted a picture, but that you’ve brought out a new-sized bottle, or a full strength for Invalids, or something. BROXOPP. I think you exaggerate, Jack. JACK. I know I do. But you can’t get over it that it’s going to be pretty rotten for me. It’s always been rotten for _me_—and now it’s going to be rotten for Iris. BROXOPP. Is it, Iris? You’d tell me the truth, I know. IRIS. I want to marry Jack, Daddy Broxopp. But I don’t want to marry the Beans. I told Nancy so. NANCY (_to BROXOPP_). I do understand, dear. JACK. I don’t want you to think that Iris put this into my head. It’s always been there. IRIS (_frankly_). I expect I brought it out, though. BROXOPP. And what does Sir Roger say about it? JACK. Sir Roger says that his grandson is not going to have a name that every Tom, Dick and Harry gapes at on the hoardings. IRIS. I ought to explain that Jack wants to marry _me_, not Father’s way of expressing himself. I told Father so. JACK. Still, you do see his—well, our point of view? Don’t you, Dad? NANCY. Oh yes, dear. BROXOPP. Certainly, my boy. JACK (_relieved_). Good man. I thought you would. BROXOPP (_getting up_). The only thing I’m wondering is whether there is any chance of your seeing mine. JACK (_surprised_). Yours?