CARNABY. George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile. That's a home thrust of a metaphor. GEORGE _laughs again_. CARNABY. Twins! GEORGE. Yes, a boy and a girl . . . I'm the father of a boy and a girl. CARNABY. [_In dignified, indignant horror._] No one of you dared tell me that much! SARAH _and_ ANN _come from the house_. GEORGE. You could have asked me for news of your grandchildren. CARNABY. Twins is an insult. SARAH. But you look very cheerful, George. GEORGE. I am content. SARAH. I'm surprised. GEORGE. I am surprised. SARAH. Now what names for them? CARNABY. No family names, please. GEORGE. We'll wait for a dozen years or so and let them choose their own. DR. REMNANT. But, sir, christening will demand-- CARNABY. Your son should have had my name, sir. GEORGE. I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no pride in. SARAH. George! GEORGE. Not to say that it sounds his, not mine. CARNABY. Our hopes of you were high once. GEORGE. Sarah, may I kiss you? [_He kisses her cheek._] Let me hear what you decide to do. CARNABY. The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time. GEORGE. [_Quite pleasantly._] Don't say that. _At the top of the steps_ ANN _is waiting for him_. ANN. I'll see you into the saddle. GEORGE. Thank you, sister Ann. ANN. Why didn't you leave us weeks ago? GEORGE. Why! _They pace away, arm-in-arm._ CARNABY. [_Bitterly._] Glad to go! Brighton, Sarah. SARAH. No, I shall not come, Papa. CARNABY. Coward. [_Then to_ REMNANT.] Good-night. DR. REMNANT. [_Covering the insolent dismissal._] With your kind permission I will take my leave. [_Then he bows to_ SARAH.] Lady Cottesham. SARAH. [_Curtseying._] Doctor Remnant, I am yours. CARNABY. [_Sitting by the fountain, stamping his foot._] Oh, this cracked earth! Will it rain . . will it rain? DR. REMNANT. I doubt now. That cloud has passed. CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! There's a good word and I'm not at all sure what it means. DR. REMNANT. Per . . lucere . . . letting light through. REMNANT _leaves them_. CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! . . thank you. Brighton, Sarah. SARAH. Ann needs new clothes. CARNABY. See to it. SARAH. I shall not be there. _She turns from him._ CARNABY. Pretty climax to a quarrel! SARAH. Not a quarrel. CARNABY. A political difference. SARAH. Don't look so ferocious. CARNABY. My arm is in great pain and the wine's in my head. SARAH. Won't you go to bed? CARNABY. I'm well enough . . to travel. This marriage makes us safe, Sarah . . an anchor in each camp . . There's a mixed metaphor. SARAH. If you'll have my advice, Papa, you'll keep those plans clear from Ann's mind. CARNABY. John Carp is so much clay . . a man of forty ignorant of himself. SARAH. But if the Duke will not . . CARNABY. The Duke hates a scandal. SARAH. Does he detest scandal!