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Theodore was late as usual.
COLONEL.
Only ten minutes, Caroline; but, as you know, time, tide, and your aunt wait for no man.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Now, Gerald, let me look at you. Your face to the light, please.
[_GERALD stands for inspection. She takes a long look through her eye-gla.s.s._] I don't like that necktie.
GERALD [_smiling and bowing_].
It shall be changed to-morrow, aunt.
LADY WARGRAVE.
To-day. [_GERALD bows. She takes another look._] That will do, Gerald.
[_GERALD salutes. She drops her gla.s.ses._
COLONEL.
Stand at ease! Dismiss!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Theodore, this is not a barracks!
COLONEL.
True. [_Bows._] Peccavi!
LADY WARGRAVE [_addressing GERALD_].
I need hardly say with what pleasure I have followed your career at Oxford. It is worthy of a Cazenove.
COLONEL.
Brilliant--magnificent!
LADY WARGRAVE.
It is worthy of a Cazenove; that is all.
[_COLONEL subsides, bowing._
GERALD.
Yes, aunt, I flatter myself----
LADY WARGRAVE.
Don't do that. You did your duty. Nothing more.
GERALD.
By the way, did you receive my poem?
LADY WARGRAVE.
Poem?
GERALD.
That won the Newdigate. I sent you a copy--to Rome.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Ah, I remember; I received the doc.u.ment. Tell me, were there many compet.i.tors?
GERALD.
A dozen or so.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Is it possible that Oxford can produce eleven worse poems than yours?
GERALD.
My dear aunt!
[_COLONEL turns aside, chuckling, and finds himself face to face with MARGERY, laughing; both become suddenly serious._
MRS. SYLVESTER [_advancing_].
It is a work of genius--none but a true poet----
LADY WARGRAVE [_half rising. MARGERY steps forward to help her_].
I ask your pardon. Gerald, you haven't introduced me!
GERALD.
Forgive me, Mrs. Sylvester--forgive me, aunt, but in the excitement of seeing you----
LADY WARGRAVE.
Sylvester!
