MRS. CULVER. Yes. Have you heard anything special?

CULVER. No. But I've seen something special. I saw it less than an hour
ago. It was shown to me without the slightest warning, and I admit it
shook me. You can perceive for yourselves that it shook me.

MRS. CULVER. But what?

CULVER. The New Year's Honours List--or rather a few choice selections
from the more sensational parts of it.

_Enter_ Hildegarde.

MRS. CULVER. Arthur, _what_ do you mean? (_To_ Hildegarde, _in
despair_.) My chick, your father grows more and more puzzling every day!
How well that shawl suits you! You look quite a different girl. But
you've--(_arranges the shawl on_ Hildegarde) I really don't know what
your father has on his mind! I really don't!

JOHN (_impatient of this feminine manifestation_). Oh, dad, go on. Go
on! I want to get at the bottom of this titles business. I'm hanged if I
can understand it. What strikes me as an unprejudiced observer is that
titles are supposed to be such a terrific honour, and yet the people who
deal them out scarcely ever keep any for themselves. Look at Mr.
Gladstone, for instance. He must have made about forty earls and seven
thousand baronets in his time. Now if I was a Prime Minister, and I
believed in titles--which I jolly well don't--I should make myself a
duke right off; and I should have several marquises and viscounts round
me in the Cabinet like a sort of bodyguard, and my private secretaries