Publisher's Synopsis
The SCENE is the pretty drawing-room of a flat. There are two doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained. Through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet drawn, the towers of Westminster can be seen darkening in a summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner. The man-servant PAYNTER, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two tables for Bridge. BURNEY, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery Botticellian faces only met with in England, comes in through the curtained door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white wall. PAYNTER looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an expression of concern. PAYNTER. Where's she gone? BURNEY. Just walks about, I fancy. PAYNTER. She and the Governor don't hit it! One of these days she'll flit-you'll see. I like her-she's a lady; but these thoroughbred 'uns-it's their skin and their mouths. They'll go till they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but jib-jib-jib. How was it down there before she married him? BURNEY. Oh! Quiet, of course. PAYNTER. Country homes-I know 'em. What's her father, the old Rector, like? BURNEY. Oh! very steady old man. The mother dead long before I took the place. PAYNTER. Not a penny, I suppose? BURNEY. [Shaking her head] No; and seven of them. PAYNTER. [At sound of the hall door] The Governor! BURNEY withdraws through the curtained door. GEORGE DEDMOND enters from the hall. He is in evening dress, opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily shaved, but with neat moustaches. His eyes, clear, small, and blue-grey, have little speculation. His hair is well brushed.
