PHILIP. Sh! Consequently, he is only our solicitor. Do you know
one Crampton, of this town?

WAITER. Cock-eyed Crampton, sir, of the Crooked Billet, is it?

PHILIP. I don't know. Finch: does he keep a public house?

McCOMAS (rising scandalized). No, no, no. Your father, sir, is a
well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here.

WAITER (impressed). Oh, beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. A son of Mr.
Crampton's! Dear me!

PHILIP. Mr. Crampton is coming to lunch with us.

WAITER (puzzled). Yes, sir. (Diplomatically.) Don't usually lunch
with his family, perhaps, sir?

PHILIP (impressively). William: he does not know that we are his
family. He has not seen us for eighteen years. He won't know us. (To
emphasize the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a
spring, and looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs
swinging.)

DOLLY. We want you to break the news to him, William.

WAITER. But I should think he'd guess when he sees your mother,
miss. (Philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. He
contemplates the waiter raptly.)