_Marmaduke Beltravers_ (_hoarsely_). I have laid at your feet my hand, my heart and my flourishing business, and thus--thus I am supplanted by that puling saint, George Jeffreys. A-ha! [_Gnaws his moustache._
_Enter_ George Jeffreys, _an English gentleman._
_George Jeffreys_ (_furiously_). You here? You hound! You blackguard! You ...
_Mary_ (_realising that this is going to be no place for a lady_). The butcher--know his ring. [_Exit by door_ R.
_G.J._ (_pointing fiercely to cupboard_). Go!
_M.B._ (_going_). Bah! You triumph now, but my day will dawn yettah. (_Starts._) What was that?
_Newsboy_ (_outside_). War with Germany! War with Germany!
_G.J._ War? Then I am a pauper. [_He does not say how, but presumably he knows best._
_M.B._ (_ceasing to go_). My day has dawned _now_.
_M.B._ Your conscience calls you, does it not, to enlist? (George _nods._) I have no conscience. While you fight I shall continue to press my suit.
_G.J._ (_despairingly to himself_). Alas! what chance will that sweet girl have against his dark saturnine beauty and his wealth? (_Aloud, hopefully, as a thought strikes him_) But stay--war with Germany--perhaps you are a pauper also?
_M.B._ Not I, indeed. I am a maker of munitions. A-ha! [_Twirls his moustache._
_G.J._ (_losing his temper_). Cur! [_Exit, to enlist, into cupboard. Before he has time to realise his mistake the curtain falls._
_A dozen energetic supers, by being extremely glad to see one another very many times, are creating the illusion of a gay and fashionable throng. Enter_ Marmaduke Beltravers _with_ Mary. _She is distraite._
_M.B._ (_in full hearing of fashionable throng_). Darling, I have waited patiently for you. Say that you will marry me now.
_Mary._ Marmaduke, you are rich, you are beautiful and you are kind to me in your rather wicked way. But, alas! I cannot forget the noble figure of George--my George. [_She sobs._
_Enter_ George Jeffreys, _in the uniform of a private._
_M.B._ (_intervening jauntily_). Well, my man?
_G.J._ (_his vocabulary strengthened by Army life_). You dash blank blighter! You ruddy plague-spot!
_Mary_ (_gazing at him with horror_). Oh, George, those--clothes--don't--fit! [_Sobs heartbrokenly._
_M.B._ (_striking while the iron is hot_). Mary, you shall choose between us, here and now.