The Title | Page 2

Next she learnt typing. Then she became an authority on everything. And now she's concocting these food articles for you. Believe me, the girl knows nothing whatever about cookery. She couldn't fry a sausage for nuts. Once the mater insisted on her doing the housekeeping--in the holidays, too! Stay me with flagons!
HILDEGARDE (_without looking round_). Stay you with chocolates, you mean, Johnnie, dear.
JOHN. There you are! Her thoughts fly instantly to chocolates--and in the fourth year of the greatest war that the world--
HILDEGARDE. Etcetera, etcetera.
TRANTO. Then do I gather that you don't entirely approve of your sister's articles?
JOHN. Tripe, I think. My fag could write better. I'll tell you what I do approve of. I approve of that article to-day by that chap Sampson Straight about titles and the shameful traffic in honours, and the rot of the hereditary principle, and all that sort of thing.
TRANTO. I'm glad. Delivers the goods, doesn't he, Mr. Sampson Straight?
JOHN. Well, I think so. Who is he?
TRANTO. One of my discoveries, John. He sent me in an article about--let me see, when was it?--about eight months ago. I at once perceived that in Mr. Sampson Straight I had got on to a bit of all right. And I was not mistaken. He has given London beans pretty regularly once a week ever since.
JOHN. He must have given the War Cabinet neuralgia this afternoon, anyhow. I should like to meet him.
TRANTO. I'm afraid that's impossible.
JOHN. Is it? Why?
TRANTO. Well, I haven't met him myself yet. He lives at a quiet country place in Cornwall. Hermit, I believe. Hates any kind of publicity. Absolutely refuses to be photographed.
JOHN. Photographed! I should think not! But couldn't you get him to come and lecture at school? We have frightful swells, you know.
TRANTO. I expect you do. But he wouldn't come.
JOHN. I wish he would. We had a debate the other Saturday night on, Should the hereditary principle be abolished?
TRANTO. And did you abolish it?
JOHN. Did we abolish it? I should say we did. Eighty-five to twenty-one. Some debate, believe me!
HILDEGARDE (_looking round_). Yes, but didn't you tell us once that in your Debating Society the speakers always tossed for sides beforehand?
JOHN (_shrugging his shoulders. More confidentially to_ Tranto). As I was saying, I'm going to read the papers in future, as part of my scheme. And d'you know what the scheme is? (Impressively.) I've decided to take up a political career.
TRANTO. Good!
JOHN. Yes, it was during that hereditary principle debate that I decided. It came over me all of a sudden while I was on the last lap of my speech and the fellows were cheering. And so I want to understand first of all the newspaper situation in London. There are one or two things about it I _don't_ understand.
TRANTO. Not more? I can explain the newspaper situation to you in ten words. You know I've got a lot of uncles. I daresay I've got more uncles than anybody else in 'Who's Who.' Well, I own The Echo,--inherited it from my father. My uncles own all the rest of the press--(_airily_) with a few trifling exceptions. That's the London newspaper situation. Quite simple, isn't it?
JOHN. But of course The Echo is up against all your uncles' papers--at least it seems so.
TRANTO. Absolutely up against them. Tooth and nail. Daggers drawn. No quarter. Death or victory.
JOHN. But do you and your uncles speak to each other?
TRANTO. Best of friends.
JOHN. But aren't two of your uncles lords?
TRANTO. Yes. Uncle Joe was made an earl not long since--you may have heard of the fuss about it. Uncle Sam's only a miserable baron yet. And Uncle Cuthbert is that paltry insect--a baronet.
JOHN. What did they get their titles for?
TRANTO. Ask me another.
JOHN. Of course I don't want to be personal, but how did they get them? Did they--er--buy them?
TRANTO. Don't know.
JOHN. Haven't you ever asked them?
TRANTO. Well, John, you've got relatives yourself, and you probably know there are some things that even the most affectionate relatives _don't_ ask each other.
HILDEGARDE (_rising from the desk and looking at John's feet_). Yes, indeed! This very morning I unwisely asked Johnnie whether his socks ever talked. Altercation followed. 'Some debate, believe me!'
JOHN (_rising; with scornful tranquillity_). I'd better get ready for dinner. Besides, you two would doubtless like to be alone together for a few precious moments.
HILDEGARDE (_sharply and self-consciously_). What do you mean?
JOHN (_lightly_). Nothing. I thought editor and contributor--
HILDEGARDE. Oh! I see.
JOHN (_stopping at door, and turning round_). Do you mean to say your uncles won't be frightfully angry at Mr. Sampson Straight's articles? Why, dash it, when he's talking about traffic in honours, if he doesn't mean them who does he mean?
TRANTO. My dear friend, stuff like that's meat and drink to my uncles. They put it down like chocolates.
JOHN. Well