ROOKE TWOMBLEY.

[Glancing at the envelope.] The Mater. Thank you. [A little cough is
heard. He looks toward the drawing-room.] Is anyone there?

PROBYN.

Mrs. Gaylustre, sir.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

The dressmaker! What does she want?

PROBYN.

She told Phipps, Miss Imogen's maid, sir, that she was anxious to see
the effect of her ladyship's and Miss Imogen's gowns when they get back
from the Drawing-Room.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

You should take her upstairs.

PROBYN.

Beg your pardon, Mr. Brooke, but we've always understood that when Mrs.
Gaylustre calls in the morning she's a dressmaker, and when she calls in
the afternoon she's a lady.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

Oh, very well; it's awfully confusing. [PROBYN goes out. BROOKE reads
the letter.] "My sweet child. For heaven's sake let me have your
skeddle, or whatever you call your list of debts, directly. I'll do my
best to get you out of your scrape, though _how_ I can't think. I'm
desperately short of money, and altogether--as my poor dear father used
to say--things are as blue as old Stilton. If your pa finds out what a
muddle I'm in, I fear he'll throw up public life and bury us in the
country, and then good-by to my dear boy's and girl's prospects. So if I
contrive to clear you once more, don't do it again, my poppet, or you'll
break the heart of your loving mother, Kitty Twombley." The Mater's a
brick--what! But I wonder if she has any notion how much it tots up to.

[He places the letter upon the back of a large saddle-bag arm-chair
while he takes out the schedule.]

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

Three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six, nought, two. What!

[PROBYN enters.]

PROBYN.

A young man wants to see you, Mr. Brooke.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

Who is it?

PROBYN.

No card, sir--and rather queerly dressed. Says he has a wish to shake
hands with you on the door-step.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

Oh, I say! He mustn't, you know--what!

PROBYN.

I don't quite like the look of him, sir; gives the name of White--Mr.
Valentine White.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

Why, that's my cousin!

PROBYN.

Cousin, sir! I beg pardon.

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

Where is he?

[BROOKE goes out quickly, followed by PROBYN. The HON. MRS. GAYLUSTRE,
an attractive, self-possessed, mischievous-looking woman, of not more
than thirty, very fashionably dressed, enters from the drawing-room.]

MRS. GAYLUSTRE.

How very charming! Lady Twombley's latest fad, the Algerian
conservatory. And there