HILDEGARDE (letting herself go).  Why should I care?  What have I done to make you imagine I care?  It’s quite true that I’ve saved your newspaper from an early grave.  It was suffering from rickets, spinal curvature, and softening of the brain; and I’ve performed a miraculous cure on it with my articles.  I’m Sampson Straight.  But that’s not enough for you.  You can’t keep sentiment out of business.  No man ever could.  You’d like Sampson Straight to wear blouses and bracelets for you, and loll on sofas for you, and generally offer you the glad eye.  It’s an insult.  And then on the top of all, you go and give the whole show away to papa, in spite of our understanding; and if papa hadn’t been the greatest dear in the world you might have got me into the most serious difficulties.

TRANTO (equably, after a pause), I don’t think I’ll ask myself to stay for lunch.

HILDEGARDE.  Good morning.

TRANTO (near the door).  I suppose I’d better announce that he’s died very suddenly under mysterious circumstances?

HILDEGARDE.  Who?

TRANTO.  Sampson Straight.

HILDEGARDE.  And what about my new article, that you’ve got in hand?

TRANTO.  It can be a posthumous article, in a black border.

HILDEGARDE.  Indeed!  And why shouldn’t Sampson Straight transfer his services to another paper?  There are several who’d jump at him.

TRANTO.  I never thought of that.

HILDEGARDE.  Naturally!

TRANTO.  He shall live.

(A pause.  Tranto bows, and exit, back.)

(Hildegarde subsides once more on to the sofa.)

Enter Culver, in his velvet coat, L.

CULVER (softly, with sprightliness).  Hello, Sampson!

HILDEGARDE.  Dad, please don’t call me that.

CULVER.  Not when we’re alone?  Why?

HILDEGARDE.  I—­I—­Dad, I’m in a fearful state of nerves just now.  Lost my temper and all sorts of calamities.

CULVER.  Really!  I’d no idea.  I gathered that the interview between you and your mother had passed quite smoothly.

HILDEGARDE.  Oh! That!

CULVER.  What do you mean—­’Oh! That!’?

HILDEGARDE (standing; in a new, less gloomy tone).  Papa, what are you doing out of bed?  You’re very ill.

CULVER.  Well, I’d managed to dress before your mother and Johnnie came.  As soon as they imparted to me the glad tidings that baronetcies were off I felt so well I decided to come down and thank you for your successful efforts on behalf of the family well-being.  I’m no longer your father.  I’m your brother.

HILDEGARDE.  It was Johnnie did it.

CULVER.  It wasn’t—­I know.

HILDEGARDE (exasperated).  I say it was! (Apologetically).  So sorry, dad. (Kisses him).  Where are they, those two? (Sits).  CULVER.  Mother and John?  Don’t know.  I fancy somebody called as I came down.