_Dora_ (_rousing herself and selecting an egg_). It is my father that will
be missing his train entirely, and it is his son that would this minute be
sleeping the blessed daylight away had I not let fall upon him a sponge
that I had picked out of the cold, cold water.

_Gertrude._ It is a flapper you are, Dora Smith-Hybrow.

_Dora._ It is a flapper you will never be again, Gertrude Smith-Hybrow,
though you be after doing your queer best to look like one.

_Mrs. S.-H._ Whisht! Is it the time for loose talk, with the wind rising,
rising, and the rain falling, falling, and the price of butter up another
threepence this blessed morning?

[_They all three recommence keening. Enter_ Mr. Smith-Hybrow _followed
by_ Cyril.

_Mr. S.-H._ (_staunching a gash in his chin_). Is it not a hard thing for a
man to be late for his breakfast and the rain falling, falling, and the
wind rising, rising. It's destroyed I am with the loss of blood and no food
in my stomach would keep the life in a flea.

[_Sits in his place and opens his letters savagely._ Cyril, _a
cadaverous youth, stares gloomily into the depths of the marmalade._

_Cyril_ (_dreamily_). There's gold and gold and gold--caverns of gold. And
there's a woman with hair of gold and eyes would pick the locks of a man's
soul, and long shining hands like pale seaweed. Is it not a terrible thing
that a man would have to go to the City when there is a woman with gold
hair waiting for him in the marmalade pot--waiting to draw him down into