CARNABY. Do we respect innocence enough . . . any of us? GEORGE _comes down the steps and joins them_. GEORGE. Respectable politics will henceforth be useless to me. CARNABY. My lord, was his grace satisfied with the young man's work abroad or was he not? LORD JOHN. My father used to curse everyone. CARNABY. That's a mere Downing Street custom. LORD JOHN. And I seem to remember that a letter of yours from . . . where were you in those days? GEORGE. Paris . . . Naples . . . Vienna. LORD JOHN. One place . . . once lightened a fit of gout. CARNABY. George, you have in you the makings of a minister. GEORGE. No. CARNABY. Remember the Age tends to the disreputable. GEORGE _moves away_, SARAH _moves towards them_. CARNABY. George is something of a genius, stuffed with theories and possessed of a curious conscience. But I am fortunate in my children. LORD JOHN. All the world knows it. CARNABY. [_To_ SARAH.] It's lucky that yours was a love match, too. I admire you. Ann is 'to come,' so to speak. SARAH. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Were you discussing affairs? LORD JOHN. Not I. GEORGE. Ann. ANN. Yes, George. _She goes to him; they stroll together up the steps and along the terrace._ SARAH. I'm desperately fagged. LORD JOHN. [_Politely._] A seat. SARAH. Also tired of sitting. CARNABY. Let's have the Brighton news, Carp. LORD JOHN. If there's any. CARNABY. Probably I still command abuse. Even my son-in-law must, by courtesy, join in the cry . . . ah, poor duty-torn Sarah! You can spread abroad that I am as a green bay tree. CARNABY _paces slowly away from them_. LORD JOHN. Your father's making a mistake. SARAH. D'you think so? LORD JOHN. He's played the game once. SARAH. I was not then in the knowledge of things when he left you. LORD JOHN. We remember it. SARAH. I should like to hear it. LORD JOHN. I have avoided this subject. SARAH. With him, yes. LORD JOHN. Oh! . . . why did I desert the army for politics? SARAH. Better fighting. LORD JOHN. It sat so nobly upon him . . . the leaving us for conscience sake when we were strongly in power. Strange that six months later we should be turned out. SARAH. Papa was lucky. LORD JOHN. But this second time . . . ? SARAH. Listen. This is very much a private quarrel with Mr. Pitt, who hates Papa . . . gets rid of him. LORD JOHN. Shall I betray a confidence? SARAH. Better not. LORD JOHN. My father advised me to this visit. SARAH. Your useful visit. More than kind of his Grace. LORD JOHN. Yes . . . there's been a paragraph in the "Morning Chronicle," 'The Whigs woo Mr. Carnaby Leete.' SARAH. We saw to it. LORD JOHN. My poor father seems anxious to discover whether the Leete episode will repeat itself entirely. He is chronically unhappy in opposition. Are your husband and his colleagues trembling in their seats? SARAH. I can't say.