ABUD _is still working_. CARNABY LEETE _comes from the house followed by_ DR. REMNANT. _He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is flushed, his speech rapid._ CARNABY. Parson, you didn't drink enough wine . . . damme, the wine was good. DR. REMNANT. I am very grateful for an excellent dinner. CARNABY. A good dinner, sir, is the crown to a good day's work. DR. REMNANT. It may also be a comfort in affliction. Our philosophy does ill, Mr. Leete, when it despises the more simple means of contentment. CARNABY. And which will be the better lover of a woman, a hungry or a well-fed man? DR. REMNANT. A good meal digests love with it; for what is love but a food to live by . . but a hungry love will ofttimes devour its owner. CARNABY. Admirable! Give me a man in love to deal with. Vous l'avez vu? DR. REMNANT. Speak Latin, Greek or Hebrew to me, Mr. Leete. CARNABY. French is the language of little things. My poor France! Ours is a little world, Parson . . . a man may hold it here. [_His open hand._] Lord John Carp's a fine fellow. DR. REMNANT. Son of a Duke. CARNABY. And I commend to you the originality of his return. At twelve we fight . . . at one-thirty he proposes marriage to my daughter. D'ye see him humbly on his knees? Will there be rain, I wonder? DR. REMNANT. We need rain . . Abud? ABUD. Badly, sir. CARNABY. Do we want a wet journey tomorrow! Where's Sarah? DR. REMNANT. Lady Cottesham's taking tea. CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD _with a sudden start_.] And why the devil didn't you marry my daughter-in-law . . my own gardener? GEORGE _appears dressed for riding_. GEORGE. Good-bye, sir, for the present. CARNABY. Boots and breeches! GEORGE. You shouldn't be about in the evening air with a green wound in your arm. You drank wine at dinner. Be careful, sir. CARNABY. Off to your wife and the expected? GEORGE. Yes, sir. CARNABY. Riding to Watford? GEORGE. From there alongside the North Coach, if I'm in time. CARNABY. Don't founder my horse. Will ye leave the glorious news with your grandfather at Wycombe? GEORGE. I won't fail to. [_Then to_ ABUD.] We've been speaking of you. ABUD. It was never any secret, sir. GEORGE. Don't apologise. _Soon after this_ ABUD _passes out of sight_. CARNABY. Nature's an encumbrance to us, Parson. DR. REMNANT. One disapproves of flesh uninspired. CARNABY. She allows you no amusing hobbies . . always takes you seriously. GEORGE. Good-bye, Parson. DR. REMNANT. [_As he bows._] Your most obedient. CARNABY. And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of the respect due to womanhood and now the result . . . hark to it squalling. DR. REMNANT. Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the new-born? CARNABY. Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so. GEORGE. I did say so. CARNABY. I feel the whole matter deeply. GEORGE _half laughs_.