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PERCY [_smiling_].
Pettigrew!
[_Turns off._
GERALD.
One of my Oxford friends.
LADY WARGRAVE [_aside to him_].
One of those who are always at Oxford?
VICTORIA.
His "Supercilia" are quoted everywhere.
LADY WARGRAVE.
His----?
GERALD.
A column Percy does for "The Corset."
VICTORIA.
A newspaper devoted to our cause.
GERALD.
"The Corset" is Percy's organ.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Ah, his rattle!
SERVANT.
Dr. Bevan.
DR. BEVAN [_shakes hands with LADY WARGRAVE_].
I hope I am not late; but I was detained at the hospital. Most interesting case, unhappily unfit for publication.
SERVANT.
Miss Bethune.
[_Exit SERVANT._
Enter ENID.
COLONEL [_to SYLVESTER_].
The best of 'em! [_ENID shakes hands with LADY WARGRAVE._] Ah, what a pity, what a pity, Sylvester!
SYLVESTER.
What is a pity, Colonel?
COLONEL.
That such a figure should be wasted!
SYLVESTER [_in a matter of course voice_].
I prefer Mrs. Cazenove's.
[_Turns off. COLONEL eyes him curiously. The other Guests should be so arranged that each man is surrounded by a little group of women._
PERCY [_the centre of one group, lolling lazily, always smiling with self-complacency, suddenly sits up and s.h.i.+vers_].
No, no! don't mention it. It bores me so.
[_s.h.i.+vers._
CHORUS.
And me!
[_All s.h.i.+ver._
VICTORIA.
The stage has ever been Woman's greatest foe.
GUEST.
For centuries it has s.h.i.+rked the s.e.xual problem.
SYLVESTER [_who has strolled up_].
But doesn't it show signs of repentance?
PERCY.
The theatre is dying.
