MRS. CULVER.  You’ve been so charming about my boy, Mr. Straight.  STRAIGHT.  I was so very greatly impressed by your son this morning at the Club that I couldn’t resist the opportunity he gave me of visiting his home.  What I say is:  like parents, like child.  I’m an old-fashioned man.

MRS. CULVER.  No one would guess that from your articles in The Echo.  Of course they’re frightfully clever, but you know I don’t quite agree with all your opinions.

STRAIGHT.  Neither do I. You see—­there’s always a difference between what one thinks and what one has to write.

MRS. CULVER.  I’m so glad. (Culver starts and looks round.) What is it, Arthur?

CULVER.  Nothing!  I thought I heard the ice cracking. (Hildegarde begins to smile.)

STRAIGHT (looking at the floor; simply).  Ice?

MRS. CULVER.  Arthur!

STRAIGHT.  It was still thawing when I came in.  As I was saying, I’m an old-fashioned man.  And I’m a provincial—­and proud of it.

MRS. CULVER.  But my dear Mr. Straight, really, if you’ll excuse me, you look as if you never left the pavement of Piccadilly.  CULVER.  Say the windows of the Turf club, darling.

STRAIGHT (serenely).  No.  I live very, very quietly on my little place, and when I feel the need of contact with the great world I run over for the afternoon to—­St. Ives.

MRS. CULVER.  How remarkable!  Then that explains how it is you’re so deliciously unspoilt.

STRAIGHT.  Do you mean my face?

MRS. CULVER.  I meant you don’t seem at all to realise that you’re a very great celebrity in London; very great indeed.  A lion of the first order.

STRAIGHT (simply).  Lion?

CULVER.  You’re expected to roar, Mr. Straight.

STRAIGHT.  Roar?

MRS. CULVER.  It may interest you to know that my little daughter also writes articles in The Echo.  Yes, about war cookery.  But of course you wouldn’t notice them. (Hildegarde moves away.) I’m afraid (apologetically) your mere presence is making her just a wee bit nervous.  HILDEGARDE (from a distance, striving to control herself).  Oh, Mr. Sampson Straight.  There’s one question I’ve been longing to ask you.  I always ask it of literary lions—­and tigers.

STRAIGHT.  Tigers?

HILDEGARDE.  Do you write best in the morning or do you burn the midnight oil?

STRAIGHT.  Oil?

MRS. CULVER.  Do sit down, Mr. Straight. (She goes imploringly to Hildegarde, who has lost control of herself and is getting a little hysterical with mirth.  Aside to Hildegarde.) Hilda! (John, puzzled and threatening, also approaches Hildegarde.)

CULVER (sitting down by Straight.) And so, although you prefer a country life, the lure of London has been too strong for you in the end.

STRAIGHT.  I came to town on business.