ALMA. Oh, what a charming place.

SIR H. My own taste, plain but comfortable. Permit me to present to you my old friends, Dr. and Mrs. Dozey.

ALMA. I am delighted to meet Dr. Dozey.

MRS. D. (_crosses to ALMA_) With whose sermons no doubt you are acquainted.

ALMA. I don't read sermons, as a rule.

MRS. D. You don't read sermons?

ALMA. It may be very wicked, but I don't. (_crosses, L._)

DR. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_) A worldly-minded woman.

MRS. D. I'm afraid so.

ALMA. What a delightful, quaint, old-fashioned place this is! I must congratulate you on your taste, Sir Humphrey.

SIR H. Plain, but comfortable.

ALMA. Whose portrait's this? Isn't he a dear old dignified soul? Quite one of the last century.

SIR H. It is considered much too old for me.

ALMA. For _you!_ Oh, fifty years! I thought it was your grandfather.

DR. Makes herself quite at home. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_)

MRS. D. Ignores me altogether. (_sits, R._)

ALMA. What's this? A mirror, I declare! (_arranges herself before the gla.s.s_)

SIR H. My taste again.

ALMA. The looking-gla.s.s?

SIR H. The image it enshrines. (_bowing_)

ALMA. I understand you. Plain, but comfortable. (_laughs and pa.s.ses on; gradually gets round, and down, R._)

DR. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_) Frivolous creature. (_goes up, R., and down, R.C._)

MRS. D. Lovely diamonds!

ALMA. (_at easel_) That's a good picture. Who's the artist?

SIR H. (_following ALMA_) n.o.body particular. A sort of second or third cousin of mine.

ALMA. Whoever he is, he's clever.

SIR H. Started life under the best auspices, but he has made no way.

ALMA. How's that, Sir Humphrey? (_both come down, C._)

SIR H. It's the old story. First he got amongst a set of loose companions,--Bohemians, they called themselves--and then he took to----

ALMA. Drink?

SIR H. Not drink exactly--art. (_sits R. of table_)

ALMA. Oh dear! how very sad!

SIR H. The doctor knows the circ.u.mstances.

DR. (_down, R.C._) They were most distressing.

ALMA. But after all, some artists are successful, and a man must begin at the beginning. There's nothing wicked about art, is there, doctor?

DR. A perilous pursuit, and it is not the part of a wise man to play with fire. (_ALMA pulls a long face, and is caught by MRS. DOZEY_)

SIR H. I've no objection to a real artist, an Academician, such as Sir Clarence Gibbs, who painted my own portrait. A very gentlemanly man, indeed--received in the best families.

ALMA. But _he_ must have learnt his business before he became an Academician. (_looking at portrait_)

SIR H. I doubt it.

ALMA. So do I. (_turning to easel_) Now there is talent in that picture. The man who did that shouldn't have gone wrong.

MRS. D. But he became a scene painter!

DR. He got connected with a theatre. (_both groan_)

SIR H. (_uncomfortable_) Hem! Hem! (_tries to attract DR. DOZEY'S attention_)

ALMA. You don't approve of theatres?

DR. My views on the subject of the drama you will find fully expounded in the 13th sermon of my 20th volume. For the present I will content myself with saying that those views are d.a.m.natory. (_crosses, L._)

SIR H. Pardon me, doctor, but I should have told you, Mrs. Blake is herself connected with the stage.

DR. (_dropping gla.s.ses_) An actress! (_MRS. DOZEY rises and drops book_)

ALMA. You've dropped the sermons. (_stoops to pick up book_) Heavy, I dare say.

MRS. D. (_stopping her with a gesture, picks it up herself_) Thank you. (_goes up to armchair at back_)

DR. And so this is an actress. Bless my soul! (_Exit, L._)