, and then attempt to dine with the latest countess the same
night--and she my own aunt--well, it might be regarded as a bit--thick.
So I'm confined to the house--this house as it happens.

HILDEGARDE. But you told John your people would take the article like
meat and drink.

TRANTO. What if I did? John can't expect to discover the whole truth
about everything at one go. He's found out it's a jolly strange world.
That ought to satisfy him for to-day. Besides, he only asked me about my
uncles. He said nothing about my uncles' wives. You know what women
are--I mean wives.

HILDEGARDE. Oh, I do! Mother is a marvellous specimen.

TRANTO. I haven't told you the worst.

HILDEGARDE. I hope no man ever will.

TRANTO. The worst is this. Auntie Joe actually thinks _I_'m Sampson
Straight.

HILDEGARDE. She doesn't!

TRANTO. She does. She has an infinite capacity for belief. The
psychology of the thing is as follows. My governor died a comparatively
poor man. A couple of hundred thousand pounds, more or less. Whereas
Uncle Joe is worth five millions--and Uncle Joe was going to adopt me,
when Auntie Joe butted in and married him. She used to arrange the
flowers for his first wife. Then she arranged _his_ flowers. Then she
became a flower herself and he had to gather her. Then she had twins,
and my chances of inheriting that five millions (_he imitates the noise
of a slight explosion_) short-circuited! Well, I didn't care a volt--not
a volt! I've got lots of uncles left who are quite capable of adopting
me. But I didn't really want to be adopted at all. To adopt me was only
part of Uncle Joe's political game. It was my _Echo_ that he was after
adopting. But I'd sooner run my _Echo_ on my own than inherit Uncle
Joe's controlling share in twenty-five daily papers, seventy-one weekly
papers, six monthly magazines, and three independent advertising
agencies. I know I'm a poor man, but I'm quite ready to go on facing the
world bravely with my modest capital of a couple of hundred thousand
pounds. Only Auntie Joe can't understand that. She's absolutely
convinced that I have a terrific grudge against her and her twins, and
that in order to gratify that grudge I myself personally write articles
against all her most sacred ideals under the pseudonym of Sampson
Straight. I've pointed out to her that I'm a newspaper proprietor, and
no newspaper proprietor ever _could_ write. No use! She won't listen.

HILDEGARDE. Then she thinks you'r