CRAMPTON. Not in any unprincipled sense of course; but--but-- (blurting it out desperately) those two children would shock them. They're not fit to mix with their own people. That's what I complain of. MRS. CLANDON (with suppressed impatience). Mr. Valentine: do you think there is anything fast or loud about Phil and Dolly? VALENTINE. Certainly not. It's utter bosh. Nothing can be in better taste. CRAMPTON. Oh, yes: of course you say so. MRS. CLANDON. William: you see a great deal of good English society. Are my children overdressed? WAITER (reassuringly). Oh, dear, no, ma'am. (Persuasively.) Oh, no, sir, not at all. A little pretty and tasty no doubt; but very choice and classy--very genteel and high toned indeed. Might be the son and daughter of a Dean, sir, I assure you, sir. You have only to look at them, sir, to-- (At this moment a harlequin and columbine, dancing to the music of the band in the garden, which has just reached the coda of a waltz, whirl one another into the room. The harlequin's dress is made of lozenges, an inch square, of turquoise blue silk and gold alternately. His hat is gilt and his mask turned up. The columbine's petticoats are the epitome of a harvest field, golden orange and poppy crimson, with a tiny velvet jacket for the poppy stamens. They pass, an exquisite and dazzling apparition, between McComas and Bohun, and then back in a circle to the end of the table, where, as the final chord of the waltz is struck, they make a tableau in the middle of the company, the harlequin down on his left knee, and the columbine standing on his right knee, with her arms curved over her head. Unlike their dancing, which is charmingly graceful, their attitudinizing is hardly a success, and threatens to end in a catastrophe.) THE COLUMBINE (screaming). Lift me down, somebody: I'm going to fall. Papa: lift me down. CRAMPTON (anxiously running to her and taking her hands). My child! DOLLY (jumping down with his help). Thanks: so nice of you. (Phil, putting his hat into his belt, sits on the side of the table and pours out some claret cup. Crampton returns to his place on the ottoman in great perplexity.) Oh, what fun! Oh, dear. (She seats herself with a vault on the front edge of the table, panting.) Oh, claret cup! (She drinks.) BOHUN (in powerful tones). This is the younger lady, is it? DOLLY (slipping down off the table in alarm at his formidable voice and manner). Yes, sir. Please, who are you? MRS. CLANDON. This is Mr. Bohun, Dolly, who has very kindly come to help us this evening. DOLLY. Oh, then he comes as a boon and a blessing-- PHILIP. Sh! CRAMPTON. Mr. Bohun--McComas: I appeal to you. Is this right? Would you blame my sister's family for objecting to this? DOLLY (flushing ominously). Have you begun again? CRAMPTON (propitiating her). No, no. It's perhaps natural at your age. DOLLY (obstinately). Never mind my age. Is it pretty? CRAMPTON. Yes, dear, yes. (He sits down in token of submission.)