cry, Julia.

CUTHBERTSON (huskily). I hope you may long be spared, Dan.

CRAVEN. To oblige me, Jo, change the subject. (He gets up and again
posts himself on the hearthrug with his back to the fire.)

CHARTERIS. Try and persuade him to join our club, Cuthbertson. He
mopes.

JULIA. It's no use. Sylvia and I are always at him to join; but he
won't.

CRAVEN. My child, I have my own club.

CHARTERIS (contemptuously). Yes, the Junior Army and Navy! Do you
call that a club? Why, they daren't let a woman cross the doorstep!

CRAVEN (a little ruffled). Clubs are a matter of taste, Charteris. You
like a cock and hen club: I don't. It's bad enough to have Julia and
her sister--a girl under twenty--spending half their time at such a
place. Besides, now really, such a name for a club! The Ibsen club! I
should be laughed out of London. The Ibsen club! Come, Cuthbertson,
back me up. I'm sure you agree with me.

CHARTERIS. Cuthbertson's a member.

CRAVEN (amazed). No! Why, he's been talking to me all the evening
about the way in which everything is going to the dogs through
advanced ideas in the younger generation.