SIR H. And all philosophers are fond of a good dinner. I hope you will join our party, Mr. d.i.c.k. (_crosses, R._)

d.i.c.k. With pleasure. (_puts hat down on table_)

ALMA. But your appointment at four sharp.

d.i.c.k. I'll keep that to-morrow.

SIR H. Meanwhile, a biscuit.

d.i.c.k. (_aside_) A biscuit.

SIR H. And a gla.s.s of Heidseck.

d.i.c.k. (_following SIR HUMPHREY off, R._) Heidseck, certainly. (_takes hat_)

SIR H. Come with me, Mrs. Blake?

ALMA. Thank you, I'll stop with Ned.

d.i.c.k. (_turns_) Capital set. First-rate. Can't say I like that sky.

Scrubbs is the man for skies. (_Exit with SIR HUMPHREY, R._)

ALMA. (_crosses to L._) Now, Mr. Chetwynd. (_sits L. of table_) You never told me about this comedy. What's it all about? What's my part like?

NED. Why it's _all_ you! I thought of no one else, and called the heroine "Alma" after you. (_sits R. of table_)

ALMA. You dear old goose! If I were a manager, I should accept your pieces without reading them.

NED. Excuse me. If you were a manager, you would reject them without reading them.

ALMA. Not yours. You are my oldest admirer.

NED. What nonsense! I never met you till last year.

ALMA. Well, what of that? I've had a score since then, but they've all disappeared, and there you are still.

NED. Faithful to the last.

ALMA. The last's a long way off yet, Mr. Chetwynd. He's trundling a hoop somewhere at this moment. But he'll turn up. Each season brings its crop. They're mostly annuals, my loves.

NED. I am an amaranth.

ALMA. That locket on your chain? Isn't it the one you put my portrait in? (_rises to examine it_)

NED. Yes.

ALMA. And he wears it still! You are an amaranth, indeed. (_about to open locket_)

NED. You'd better not.

ALMA. Do let me see. I've quite forgotten what I looked like then.

(_opens it; kneels_)

NED. Just as you like.

ALMA. How I have altered!

NED. You look younger there.

ALMA. And my hair's different.

NED. The fashion's changed.

ALMA. Yes, and the colour too. There! Shut it up. (_rises_)

NED. Twelve months make a difference.

ALMA. Don't they? My amaranth has faded like the rest! (_pause_) And pray, why do you wear Miss Preston's photograph?

NED. (_after making sure that MRS. DOZEY is asleep; rises_) Can you keep a secret?

ALMA. I've kept one for six years.

NED. Miss Preston is my wife.

ALMA. Your wife!

NED. You are so quick, I knew you'd find it out, or I should have said nothing. We don't want anyone to know--at least, _I_ don't--just yet.

ALMA. Doesn't Sir Humphrey?

NED. No.

ALMA. I thought he was her guardian.

NED. She's twenty-one. He's not her guardian now.

ALMA. But he's your father, and you've done a thing like this. She, too!

NED. It wasn't her fault. It was mine, if it was anyone's. But it was no use speaking to my father. Lucy wanted to, but I knew more than she did. The governor's the best old fellow in the world, but upon certain points he is as obstinate as--as----

ALMA. His son.

NED. As I am, if you like.

ALMA. Why was it no use speaking to him?

NED. Because he would never have given his consent. The fact is, Lucy's mother was separated from her husband. She married very young, and he left her before she was twenty. Not being able to get a divorce, of course she couldn't marry again, and consequently Lucy's father couldn't marry her. That's the whole mystery. Lucy doesn't know it, but I did, and I knew it was useless talking. So we were married secretly, this year.