MR. TOZER _comes out of the dining-room. Of the worst type of eighteenth century parson, for which one may see Hogarth's 'Harlot's Progress.' He is very drunk._ SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_In his wife's ear._] Tozer! LADY LEETE. When . . why! SIR GEORGE LEETE. To say grace. LADY LEETE _folds her withered hands_. MR. TOZER. [_through his hiccoughs._] Damn you all. LADY LEETE. [_Reverently, thinking it is said._] Amen. MR. TOZER. Only my joke. CARNABY. [_Rising to the height of the occasion._] Mr. Tozer, I am indeed glad to see you, upon this occasion so delightfully drunk. MR. TOZER. Always a gen'elman . . by nature. SIR GEORGE LEETE. Lie down . . you dog. GEORGE _comes out carrying the cashmere shawl_. GEORGE. [_To his father._] Dolly wants her father to rent Markswayde, sir. MR. CROWE. Not me, my son. You're to be a farmer-baronet. SIR GEORGE. Curse your impudence! CARNABY. My one regret in dying would be to miss seeing him so. GEORGE _goes back into the dining-room_. MR. CROWE. I am tickled to think that the man marrying your daughter wasn't good enough for mine. CARNABY. And yet at fisticuffs, I'd back John Abud against our son George. DR. REMNANT _has come out of the dining-room_. TOZER _has stumbled towards him and is wagging an argumentative finger_. MR. TOZER. . . Marriage means enjoyment! DR. REMNANT. [_Controlling his indignation._] I repeat that I have found in my own copy of the prayer book no insistence upon a romantic passion. MR. TOZER. My 'terpretation of God's word is 'bove criticism. MR. TOZER _reaches the door and falls into the dining-room_. CARNABY. [_Weakly to_ DR. REMNANT.] Give me your arm for a moment. DR. REMNANT. I think Lady Cottesham has Mrs. John Abud prepared to start, sir. CARNABY. I trust Ann will take no chill walking through the mud. DR. REMNANT. Won't you sit down, sir? CARNABY. No. _For some moments_ CROWE _has been staring indignantly at_ SIR GEORGE. _Now he breaks out._ MR. CROWE. The front door of this mansion is opened to a common gardener and only then to me and mine! SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Virulently._] Damn you and yours and damn them . . and damn you again for the worse disgrace. MR. CROWE. Damn _you_, sir . . have you paid him to marry the girl? _He turns away, purple faced and_ SIR GEORGE _chokes impotently_. ABUD _and_ MR. PRESTIGE _come out talking. He is younger and less assertive than_ FARMER CROWE. MR. PRESTIGE. [_Pathetically._] All our family always has got drunk at weddings. ABUD. [_In remonstrance._] Please, uncle. CARNABY. Mr. Crowe . . I have been much to blame for not seeking you sooner. MR. CROWE. [_Mollified._] Shake hands. CARNABY. [_Offering his with some difficulty._] My arm is stiff . . from an accident. This is a maid's marriage, I assure you. MR. PRESTIGE. [_Open mouthed to_ DR. REMNANT.] One =could= hang bacon here! DOLLY. [_Very high and mighty._] The family don't.