SARAH. Be useful to Papa. [_He shakes his head, obstinately._] Praise me a little. Haven't I worked my best for my family? LORD ARTHUR. Suppose I could be useful to him now, would you, in spite of all, come to me . . no half measures? SARAH. Arthur . . [_He makes a little passionate movement towards her, but she is cold._] It's time for me to vanish from this world, because I've nothing left to sell. LORD ARTHUR. I can't help him. I don't want you. _He turns away._ SARAH. I feel I've done my best. LORD ARTHUR. Keep your father quiet. SARAH. I mean to leave him. LORD ARTHUR. What does he say to that? SARAH. I've not yet told him. LORD ARTHUR. What happens? SARAH. To sell my jewels . . spoils of a ten years' war. Three thousand pound . . how much a year? LORD ARTHUR. I'll buy them. SARAH. And return them? You have almost the right to make such a suggestion. LORD ARTHUR. Stick to your father. He'll care for you? SARAH. No . . we all pride ourselves on our lack of sentiment. LORD ARTHUR. You must take money from your husband. SARAH. I have earned that and spent it. LORD ARTHUR. [_Yielding once again to temptation._] I'm devilish fond of you . . . _At that moment_ ABUD _comes out of the dining-room. He is dressed in his best._ SARAH _responds readily to the interruption_. SARAH. And you must give my kindest compliments to Lady Arthur and my . . affectionately . . to the children and I'll let Papa know that you're going. LORD ARTHUR. Letters under cover to your father? SARAH. Papa will stay in town through the session of course . . but they all tell me that seventy-five pounds a year is a comfortable income in . . Timbuctoo. _She goes into the dining-room._ ABUD _has selected his boots from the corner and now stands with them in his hand looking rather helpless. After a moment_-- LORD ARTHUR. I congratulate you, Mr. Abud. ABUD. My lord . . I can't speak of myself. CARNABY _comes out of the dining-room. He is evidently by no means recovered from his illness. He stands for a moment with an ironical eye on_ JOHN ABUD. CARNABY. Son-in-law. ABUD. I'm told to get on my boots, sir. CARNABY. Allow me to assist you? ABUD. I couldn't, sir. CARNABY. Désolé! _Then he passes on._ ABUD _sits on the sofa, furtively puts on his boots and afterwards puts his shoes in his pockets_. LORD ARTHUR. You were so busy drinking health to the two fat farmers that I wouldn't interrupt you. CARNABY. Good-bye. Describe all this to your brother John. LORD ARTHUR. So confirmed a bachelor! CARNABY. Please say that we missed him. LORD ARTHUR _hands him the newspaper_. LORD ARTHUR. I've out-raced your _Chronicle_ from London by some hours. There's a paragraph . . second column . . near the bottom. CARNABY. [_Looking at it blindly._] They print villainously now-a-days. LORD ARTHUR. Inspired. CARNABY. I trust his grace is well? LORD ARTHUR. Gouty. CARNABY. Now doesn't the social aspect of this case interest you?