flowers for his first wife. Then she arranged _his_ flowers. Then she
became a flower herself and he had to gather her. Then she had twins,
and my chances of inheriting that five millions (_he imitates the noise
of a slight explosion_) short-circuited! Well, I didn't care a volt--not
a volt! I've got lots of uncles left who are quite capable of adopting
me. But I didn't really want to be adopted at all. To adopt me was only
part of Uncle Joe's political game. It was my _Echo_ that he was after
adopting. But I'd sooner run my _Echo_ on my own than inherit Uncle
Joe's controlling share in twenty-five daily papers, seventy-one weekly
papers, six monthly magazines, and three independent advertising
agencies. I know I'm a poor man, but I'm quite ready to go on facing the
world bravely with my modest capital of a couple of hundred thousand
pounds. Only Auntie Joe can't understand that. She's absolutely
convinced that I have a terrific grudge against her and her twins, and
that in order to gratify that grudge I myself personally write articles
against all her most sacred ideals under the pseudonym of Sampson
Straight. I've pointed out to her that I'm a newspaper proprietor, and
no newspaper proprietor ever _could_ write. No use! She won't listen.

HILDEGARDE. Then she thinks you're a liar.

TRANTO. Oh, not at all. Only a journalist. But you perceive the widening
rift in the family lute. (_A silence_.) Pardon this glimpse into the
secret history of the week.

HILDEGARDE (_formidably_). Mr. Tranto, you and I are sitting on the edge
of a volcano.

TRANTO. We are. I like it. Thrilling, and yet so warm and cosy.