_Twelve o'clock, Sunday morning, end of June. With the rising of the Curtain, enter the_ BUTLER. _As he is going, with majestic port, to answer the door_ L., _enter briskly from the garden, by lower French window_, LADY JOHN WYNNSTAY, _flushed, and flapping a garden hat to fan herself. She is a pink-cheeked woman of fifty-four, who has plainly been a beauty, keeps her complexion, but is "gone to fat."_ LADY JOHN. Has Miss Levering come down yet? BUTLER (_pausing_ C.). I haven't seen her, m'lady. LADY JOHN (_almost sharply as_ BUTLER _turns_ L.). I won't have her disturbed if she's resting. (_To herself as she goes to writing-table._) She certainly needs it. BUTLER. Yes, m'lady. LADY JOHN (_sitting at writing-table, her back to front door_). But I want her to know the moment she comes down that the new plans arrived by the morning post. BUTLER (_pausing nearly at the door_). Plans, m'la---- LADY JOHN. She'll understand. There they are. (_Glancing at the clock._) It's very important she should have them in time to look over before she goes---- (BUTLER _opens the door_ L.) (_Over her shoulder._) Is that Miss Levering? BUTLER. No, m'lady. Mr. Farnborough. [_Exit_ BUTLER. (_Enter the_ HON. R. FARNBOROUGH. _He is twenty-six; reddish hair, high-coloured, sanguine, self-important._) FARNBOROUGH. I'm afraid I'm scandalously early. It didn't take me nearly as long to motor over as Lord John said. LADY JOHN (_shaking hands_). I'm afraid my husband is no authority on motoring--and he's not home yet from church. FARN. It's the greatest luck finding _you_. I thought Miss Levering was the only person under this roof who was ever allowed to observe Sunday as a real Day of Rest. LADY JOHN. If you've come to see Miss Levering---- FARN. Is she here? I give you my word I didn't know it. LADY JOHN (_unconvinced_). Oh? FARN. Does she come every week-end? LADY JOHN. Whenever we can get her to. But we've only known her a couple of months. FARN. And I have only known her three weeks! Lady John, I've come to ask you to help me. LADY JOHN (_quickly_). With Miss Levering? I can't do it! FARN. No, no--all that's no good. She only laughs. LADY JOHN (_relieved_). Ah!--she looks upon you as a boy. FARN (_firing up_). Such rot! What do you think she said to me in London the other day? LADY JOHN. That she was four years older than you? FARN. Oh, I knew that. No. She said she knew she was all the charming things I'd been saying, but there was only one way to prove it--and that was to marry some one young enough to be her son. She'd noticed that was what the _most_ attractive women did--and she named names. LADY JOHN (_laughing_). _You_ were too old! FARN. (_nods_). Her future husband, she said, was probably just entering Eton. LADY JOHN. Just like her! FARN. (_waving the subject away_). No. I wanted to see you about the Secretaryship. LADY JOHN. You didn't get it, then?