The Title | Page 3

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 my deliberate opinion is--it's a jolly strange world. (_Exit
quickly, back)_.
TRANTO (looking at Hildegarde). So it is. Philosopher, John!
Questions rather pointed perhaps; but result in the discovery of new
truths. By the way, have I come too early?
HILDEGARDE (_archly)_. How could you? But father's controlling
the country half an hour more than usual this evening, and I expect

mamma was so angry about it she forgot to telephone you that dinner's
moved accordingly. (With piquancy and humour.) I was rather
surprised to hear when I got home from my Ministry that you'd sent
word you'd like to dine to-night.
TRANTO. Were you? Why?
HILDEGARDE. Because last week when mamma asked you for
to-night, you said you had another engagement.
TRANTO. Oh! I'd forgotten I'd told her that. Still, I really had another
engagement.
HILDEGARDE. The Countess of Blackfriars--you said.
TRANTO. Yes. Auntie Joe's. I've just sent her a telephone message to
say I'm ill and confined to the house.
HILDEGARDE. Which house?
TRANTO. I didn't specify any particular house.
HILDEGARDE. And are you ill?
TRANTO. I am not.... To get back to the realm of fact, when I read
Sampson Straight's article about the degradation of honours this
afternoon--
HILDEGARDE. Didn't you read it before you published it?
TRANTO. No. I had to rush off and confront the Medical Board at 9
a.m. I felt certain the article would be all right.
HILDEGARDE. And it wasn't all right.
TRANTO (_positively_). Perfectly all right.
HILDEGARDE. You don't seem quite sure. Are we still in the realm of
fact, or are we slipping over the frontier?

TRANTO. The article was perfectly all right. It rattled off from
beginning to end like a machine-gun, and must have caused enormous
casualties. Only I thought Auntie Joe might be one of the casualties. I
thought it might put her out of action as a hostess for a week or so. You
see, for me to publish such an onslaught on new titles in the afternoon,
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