colour.

[HILLCRIST sits in a swivel chair at the bureau, busy with
papers. He has gout, and his left foot is encased accord: He
is a thin, dried-up man of about fifty-five, with a rather
refined, rather kindly, and rather cranky countenance. Close
to him stands his very upstanding nineteen-year-old daughter
JILL, with clubbed hair round a pretty, manly face.]

JILL. You know, Dodo, it's all pretty good rot in these days.

HILLCRIST. Cads are cads, Jill, even in these days.

JILL. What is a cad?

HILLCRIST. A self-assertive fellow, without a sense of other
people.

JILL. Well, Old Hornblower I'll give you.

HILLCRIST. I wouldn't take him.

JILL. Well, you've got him. Now, Charlie--Chearlie--I say--the
importance of not being Charlie----

HILLCRIST. Good heavens! do you know their Christian names?

JILL. My dear father, they've been here seven years.

HILLCRIST. In old days we only knew their Christian names from