'Owever, it doesn't matter. 'E isn't even goin' to put 'er name to it.

ROPER.

Why not?

MRS. UPJOHN.

You may well ask. 'E's bent on callin' it "The 'Mind the Paint' Girl."

ROPER.

What's wrong with that? Everybody'll recognise who _that_ is.

MRS. UPJOHN.

[_Unconvinced._] 'Er name's printed on all 'er photos.

FARNCOMBE.

The first time I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter on the
stage, Mrs. Upjohn, a man next to me said, "Here comes the 'Mind the
Paint' girl."

MRS. UPJOHN.

[_Cheering up._] Oh, well, p'r'aps young Morgan knows 'is own business
best. Let's 'ope so, at any rate.

ROPER.

[_By the tea-table, beckoning to FARNCOMBE._] Farncombe----

FARNCOMBE.

[_To ROPER._] Eh? [_To MRS. UPJOHN, rising._] Excuse me.

[_FARNCOMBE joins ROPER, whereupon MRS. UPJOHN goes to the
writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery
delightedly._

ROPER.

[_To FARNCOMBE, in a whisper._] Do me a favour.

FARNCOMBE.

Certainly.

ROPER.

[_Looking at his watch._] It's only half-past four. Take a turn round
the Square. I've some business to talk over with the old lady.

FARNCOMBE.

[_Nodding to ROPER and then coming forward and addressing MRS.
UPJOHN._] I-- er-- I think I'll go for a little walk and come back
later on, if I may.

MRS. UPJOHN.

[_Contentedly._] Oh, jest as you like.

FARNCOMBE.

[_Moving towards the door._] In about a quarter-of-an-hour.

MRS. UPJOHN.

If we don't see you again, I'll tell Lil you've been 'ere.

FARNCOMBE.

[_At the door._] Oh, but you will; you _will_ see me again.

MRS. UPJOHN.

Well, please yourself and you please your dearest friend, as Lil's dad
used to say.

FARNCOMBE.

Thank you-- thank you very much.

[_He disappears, closing the door after him._

MRS. UPJOHN.

[_To ROPER, looking up._] I b'lieve you gave that young man the 'int
to go, Uncle.

ROPER.

I did; told him I wanted to talk business with you.

MRS. UPJOHN.

Business? [_Resuming her inspection of the trinkets._] This is a
'andsome thing Mr. Grimwood's sent 'er.

ROPER.

[_His hands in his trouser-pockets, contemplating MRS. UPJOHN
desperately._] Upon my soul, Ma, you're a champion!

MRS. UPJOHN.

_Now_ wot 'ave I done!

ROPER.

Well, you might spread yourself a little over young Farncombe.

MRS. UPJOHN.

Spread myself! Why should I?

ROPER.

Lord Farncombe!

MRS. UPJOHN.

I treat 'em all alike; so does Lil. 'E's