DOLLY. Only one.

VALENTINE. My dear, good young friends, why on earth didn't you tell
me that before? A cannon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of
course. Just excuse me while I change my coat. (He reaches the door in
a bound and vanishes. Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then stare at
one another. Missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace
at once.)

PHILIP (throwing away Dolly's arm and coming ill-humoredly towards
the operating chair). That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a
compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch - probably the first
square meal he has had for months. (He gives the chair a kick, as if it
were Valentine.)

DOLLY. It's too beastly. I won't stand it any longer, Phil. Here
in England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first
thing.

PHILIP. I won't stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was.

DOLLY. Or who he is. He may be alive.

PHILIP. I hope not. No man alive shall father me.

DOLLY. He might have a lot of money, though.

PHILIP. I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to
believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldn't have got rid of his