WAITER (smiling). You may depend on me for that, sir. My own name is Boon, sir, though I am best known down here as Balmy Walters, sir. By rights I should spell it with the aitch you, sir; but I think it best not to take that liberty, sir. There is Norman blood in it, sir; and Norman blood is not a recommendation to a waiter. McCOMAS. Well, well: "True hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood." WAITER. That depends a good deal on one's station in life, sir. If you were a waiter, sir, you'd find that simple faith would leave you just as short as Norman blood. I find it best to spell myself B. double-O.N., and to keep my wits pretty sharp about me. But I'm taking up your time, sir. You'll excuse me, sir: your own fault for being so affable, sir. I'll tell the ladies you're here, sir. (He goes out into the garden through the window.) McCOMAS. Crampton: I can depend on you, can't I? CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. I'll be quiet. I'll be patient. I'll do my best. McCOMAS. Remember: I've not given you away. I've told them it was all their fault. CRAMPTON. You told me that it was all my fault. McCOMAS. I told you the truth. CRAMPTON (plaintively). If they will only be fair to me! McCOMAS. My dear Crampton, they won't be fair to you: it's not to be expected from them at their age. If you're going to make impossible conditions of this kind, we may as well go back home at once. CRAMPTON. But surely I have a right-- McCOMAS (intolerantly). You won't get your rights. Now, once for all, Crampton, did your promises of good behavior only mean that you won't complain if there's nothing to complain of? Because, if so-- (He moves as if to go.) CRAMPTON (miserably). No, no: let me alone, can't you? I've been bullied enough: I've been tormented enough. I tell you I'll do my best. But if that girl begins to talk to me like that and to look at me like-- (He breaks off and buries his head in his hands.) McCOMAS (relenting). There, there: it'll be all right, if you will only bear and forbear. Come, pull yourself together: there's someone coming. (Crampton, too dejected to care much, hardly changes his attitude. Gloria enters from the garden; McComas goes to meet her at the window; so that he can speak to her without being heard by Crampton.) There he is, Miss Clandon. Be kind to him. I'll leave you with him for a moment. (He goes into the garden. Gloria comes in and strolls coolly down the middle of the room.) CRAMPTON (looking round in alarm). Where's McComas? GLORIA (listlessly, but not unsympathetically). Gone out--to leave us together. Delicacy on his part, I suppose. (She stops beside him and looks quaintly down at him.) Well, father? CRAMPTON (a quaint jocosity breaking through his forlornness). Well, daughter? (They look at one another for a moment, with a melancholy sense of humor.) GLORIA. Shake hands. (They shake hands.) CRAMPTON (holding her hand). My dear: I'm afraid I spoke very improperly of your mother this afternoon.