LORD JOHN. I've seen Turks. CARNABY. Horrible . . . horrible! Sit down, Carp. LORD JOHN _sits on the fountain rim_, GEORGE _begins to pace restlessly; he has been nursing the candlestick ever since_ TATTON _handed it to him_. CARNABY. George, you look damned ridiculous strutting arm-in-arm with that candlestick. GEORGE. I am ridiculous. CARNABY. If you're cogitating over your wife and her expectations . . . GEORGE _paces up the steps and away. There is a pause._ CARNABY. D'ye tell stories . . . good ones? LORD JOHN. Sometimes. CARNABY. There'll be this. LORD JOHN. I shan't. CARNABY. Say no more. If I may so express myself, Carp, you have been taking us for granted. LORD JOHN. How wide awake you are! I'm not. CARNABY. My head's cool. Shall I describe your conduct as an unpremeditated insult? LORD JOHN. Don't think anything of the sort. CARNABY. There speaks your kind heart. LORD JOHN. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me? CARNABY. As may be. LORD JOHN. Why? CARNABY. For the sake of appearances. LORD JOHN. Damn all appearances. CARNABY. Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter. LORD JOHN. Nonsense! CARNABY. Villain! What's your next move? _For a moment_ LORD JOHN _sits with knit brows_. LORD JOHN. [_Brutally._] Mr. Leete, your name stinks. CARNABY. My point of dis-ad-vantage! LORD JOHN. [_Apologising._] Please say what you like. I might have put my remark better. CARNABY. I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger. Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out . . . us. LORD JOHN. I'm not a coward. How? CARNABY. A little laughter . . . in your exuberance of health. LORD JOHN. You may trust me not to tell tales. CARNABY. Of what . . . of whom? LORD JOHN. Of here. CARNABY. And what is there to tell of here? LORD JOHN. Nothing. CARNABY. But how your promise betrays a capacity for good-natured invention! LORD JOHN. If I lie call me out. CARNABY. I don't deal in sentiment. I can't afford to be talked about otherwise than as I choose to be. Already the Aunt Sally of the hour; having under pressure of circumstances resigned my office; dating my letters from the borders of the Chiltern Hundreds . . . I am a poor politician, sir, and I must live. LORD JOHN. I can't see that your family's infected . . . affected. CARNABY. With a penniless girl you really should have been more circumspect. LORD JOHN. I might ask to marry her. CARNABY. My lord! _In the pause that ensues he takes up the twist of bass to play with._ LORD JOHN. What should you say to that? CARNABY. The silly child supposed she loved you. LORD JOHN. Yes. CARNABY. Is it a match? LORD JOHN. [_Full in the other's face._] What about the appearances of black-mail? CARNABY. [_Compressing his thin lips._] Do you care for my daughter? LORD JOHN. I could . . . at a pinch. CARNABY. Now, my lord, you are insolent.