[Dorothy and Roger embrace each other, if they can do it without causing a scandal in the neighbourhood, and the curtain goes down.

“A slight misunderstanding”

The scene is a drawing-room (in which the men are allowed to smoke—­or a smoking-room in which the women are allowed to draw—­it doesn’t much matter) in the house of somebody or other in the country.  George Turnbull and his old College friend, Henry Peterson, are confiding in each other, as old friends will, over their whiskies and cigars.  It is about three o’clock in the afternoon.

George (dreamily helping himself to a stiff soda).  Henry, do you remember that evening at Christ Church College, Oxford, five years ago, when we opened our hearts to each other...

Henry (lighting a cigar and hiding it in a fern-pot).  That moonlight evening on the Backs, George, when I had failed in my Matriculation examination?

George.  Yes; and we promised that when either of us fell in love the other should be the first to hear of it? (Rising solemnly.) Henry, the moment has come. (With shining eyes.) I am in love.

Henry (jumping up and grasping him by both hands).  George!  My dear old George! (In a voice broken with emotion.) Bless you, George!

[He pats him thoughtfully on the back three times, nods his own head twice, gives him a final grip of the hand, and returns to his chair.

George (more moved by this than he cares to show).  Thank you, Henry.  (Hoarsely.) You’re a good fellow.

Henry (airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his emotion).  Who is the lucky little lady?

George (taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and kissing it passionately).  Isobel Barley!

[If Henry is not careful he will probably give a start of surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that he (1) knows something about the lady’s past, or (2) is in love with her himself.  He is, however, thinking of a different play.  We shall come to that one in a moment.

Henry (in a slightly dashing manner).  Little Isobel?  Lucky dog!

George.  I wish I could think so. (Sighs.) But I have yet to approach her, and she may be another’s. (Fiercely.) Heavens, Henry, if she should be another’s!

Enter Isobel.

Isobel (brightly).  So I’ve run you to earth at last.  Now, what have you got to say for yourselves?

Henry (like a man).  By Jove! (looking at his watch)—­I had no idea—­is it really—­poor old Joe—­waiting—­

[Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence.

George (rising and leading Isobel to the front of the stage).  Miss Barley, now that we are alone, I have something I want to say to you.

Isobel (looking at her watch).  Well, you must be quick.  Because I’m engaged—­

[George drops her hand and staggers away from her.

Isobel.  Why, what’s the matter?