ANN. Go on being polite.
LORD JOHN. If you'll keep your head turned away.
ANN. Why must I?
LORD JOHN. There's lightning in the glances of your eye.
ANN. Do use vulgar words to me.
LORD JOHN. [_With a sudden fatherly kindness._] Go to bed . . . you're
dead tired. And good-bye . . . I'll be gone before you wake.
ANN. Good-bye.
_She shakes hands with him, then walks towards her father who is coming
down the steps._
ANN. Papa, don't my roses want looking to?
CARNABY. [_Pats her cheek._] These?
ANN. Those.
CARNABY. Abud is under your thumb, horticulturally speaking.
ANN. Where's Sally?
_She goes on to_ SARAH, _who is standing with_ GEORGE _at the top of the
steps_. CARNABY _looks_ LORD JOHN _up and down_.
LORD JOHN. [_Dusting his shoulder._] This cursed powder!
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.
LORD JOHN. Politics is a game for clever children, and women, and fools.
Will you take a word of warning from a soldier? Your father is past his
prime.
CARNABY _paces back towards them_.
CARNABY. I'm getting to be old for these all-night sittings. I must be
writing to your busy brother.
LORD JOHN. Arthur? . . . is at his home.
SARAH. Pleasantly sounding phrase.
CARNABY. His grace deserted?
SARAH. Quite secretaryless!
LORD JOHN. Lady Arthur lately has been brought to bed. I heard
yesterday.
SARAH. The seventh, is it not? Children require living up to. My
congratulations.
LORD JOHN. Won't you write them?
SARAH. We are not intimate.
LORD JOHN. A good woman.
SARAH. Evidently. Where's Ann? We'll go in.
LORD JOHN. You're a mother to your sister.
SARAH. Not I.
CARNABY. My wife went her ways into the next world; Sarah hers into
this; and our little Ann was left with a most admirable governess. One
must never reproach circumstances. Man educates woman in his own good
time.
LORD JOHN. I suppose she, or any young girl, is all heart.
CARNABY. What is it that you call heart . . . sentimentally speaking?
SARAH. Any bud in the morning.
LORD JOHN. That man Tatton's jokes are in shocking taste.
CARNABY. Tatton is honest.
LORD JOHN. I'm much to blame for having won that bet.
CARNABY. Say no more.
LORD JOHN. What can Miss Ann think of me?
SARAH. Don't ask her.
CARNABY. Innocency's opinions are invariably entertaining.
LORD JOHN. Am I the first . . . ? I really beg your pardon.
GEORGE _and_ ANN _come down the steps together_.
CARNABY. Ann, what do you think . . . that is to say--and answer me
truthfully . . . what at this moment is your inclination of mind towards
my lord here?
ANN. I suppose I love him.
LORD JOHN. I hope not.
ANN. I suppose I love you.
CARNABY. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no.
SARAH. Hush, dear.
ANN. I'm afraid, papa, there's something very ill-bred in me.
_Down the steps and into the midst of them comes_ JOHN ABUD, _carrying
his tools, among other things a twist of bass. A young gardener, honest,
clean and common._
ABUD. [_To_ CARNABY.] I ask pardon, sir.
CARNABY. So early, Abud! . . . this is your territory. So late . . . Bed.
ANN _starts away up the steps_, SARAH _is following her_.
LORD JOHN. Good-bye, Lady Cottesham.
_At this_ ANN _stops for a moment, but then goes straight on_.
SARAH. A pleasant journey.
SARAH _departs too_.
GEORGE. [_Stretching himself._] I'm roused.
CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD.] Leave your tools here for a few moments.
ABUD. I will, sir.
ABUD _leaves them, going along the terrace and out of sight_.
CARNABY. My head is hot. Pardon me.
CARNABY _is sitting on the fountain rim; he dips his handkerchief in the
water, and wrings it; then takes off his wig and binds the damp
handkerchief round his head_.
CARNABY. Wigs are most comfortable and old fashioned . . . unless you
choose to be a cropped republican like my son.
GEORGE. Nature!
CARNABY. Nature grows a beard, sir.
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 . . .