Mrs builder.  I see.

Builder.  Besides, I miss her.  Maud’s so self-absorbed.  It makes a big hole in the family, Julia.  You’ve got her address, haven’t you?

Mrs builder.  Yes. [Very still] But do you think it’s dignified, John?

Builder. [Genially] Oh, hang dignity!  I rather pride myself on knowing when to stand on my dignity and when to sit on it.  If she’s still crazy about Art, she can live at home, and go out to study.

Mrs builder.  Her craze was for liberty.

Builder.  A few weeks’ discomfort soon cures that.  She can’t live on her pittance.  She’ll have found that out by now.  Get your things on and come with me at twelve o’clock.

Mrs builder.  I think you’ll regret it.  She’ll refuse.

Builder.  Not if I’m nice to her.  A child could play with me to-day. 
Shall I tell you a secret, Julia?

Mrs builder.  It would be pleasant for a change.

Builder.  The Mayor’s coming round at eleven, and I know perfectly well what he’s coming for.

Mrs builder.  Well?

Builder.  I’m to be nominated for Mayor next month.  Harris tipped me the wink at the last Council meeting.  Not so bad at forty-seven—­h’m?  I can make a thundering good Mayor.  I can do things for this town that nobody else can.

Mrs builder.  Now I understand about Athene.

Builder. [Good-humouredly] Well, it’s partly that.  But [more seriously] it’s more the feeling I get that I’m not doing my duty by her.  Goodness knows whom she may be picking up with!  Artists are a loose lot.  And young people in these days are the limit.  I quite believe in moving with the times, but one’s either born a Conservative, or one isn’t.  So you be ready at twelve, see.  By the way, that French maid of yours, Julia—­

Mrs builder.  What about her?

Builder.  Is she—­er—­is she all right?  We don’t want any trouble with
Topping.

Mrs builder.  There will be none with—­Topping.
     [She opens the door Left.]

Builder.  I don’t know; she strikes me as—­very French.

     Mrs builder smiles and passes out.

     Builder fills his second pipe.  He is just taking up the paper again
     when the door from the hall is opened, and the manservant topping,
     dried, dark, sub-humorous, in a black cut-away, announces: 

Topping.  The Mayor, Sir, and Mr Harris!

The Mayor of Breconridge enters, He is clean-shaven, red-faced, light-eyed, about sixty, shrewd, poll-parroty, naturally jovial, dressed with the indefinable wrongness of a burgher; he is followed by his Secretary Harris, a man all eyes and cleverness.  Topping retires.

Builder. [Rising] Hallo, Mayor!  What brings you so early?  Glad to see you.  Morning, Harris!