steward to put our seats together in a secluded corner. 'You may consider it done, sir,' was his reply. That was immediately after breakfast.
Em.: How like a man to have his breakfast first. I attended to the seat business as soon as I left my cabin.
Maj.: Don't be unreasonable. It was only at breakfast that I discovered your blessed presence on the boat. I paid violent and unusual attention to a flapper all through the meal in order to make you jealous. She's probably in her cabin writing reams about me to a fellow-flapper at this very moment.
Em.: You needn't have taken all that trouble to make me jealous, Dickie. You did that years ago, when you married another woman.
Maj.: Well, you had gone and married another man--a widower, too, at that.
Em.: Well, there's no particular harm in marrying a widower, I suppose. I'm ready to do it again, if I meet a really nice one.
Maj.: Look here, Emily, it's not fair to go at that rate. You're a lap ahead of me the whole time. It's my place to propose to you; all you've got to do is to say 'Yes.'
Em.: Well, I've practically said it already, so we needn't dawdle over that part.
Maj.: Oh, well -
(They look at each other, then suddenly embrace with considerable energy.) Maj.: We dead-heated it that time. (Suddenly jumping to his feet) Oh, d--- I'd forgotten!
Em.: Forgotten what?
Maj.: The children. I ought to have told you. Do you mind children?
Em.: Not in moderate quantities. How many have you got?
Maj. (counting hurriedly on his fingers): Five.
Em.: Five!
Maj. (anxiously): Is that too many?
Em.: It's rather a number. The worst of it is, I've some myself.
Maj.: Many?
Em.: Eight.
Maj.: Eight in six years! Oh, Emily!
Em.: Only four were my own. The other four were by my husband's first marriage. Still, that practically makes eight.
Maj.: And eight and five make thirteen. We can't start our married life with thirteen children; it would be most unlucky. (Walks up and down in agitation.) Some way must be found out of this. If we could only bring them down to twelve. Thirteen is so horribly unlucky.
Em.: Isn't there some way by which we could part with one or two? Don't the French want more children? I've often seen articles about it in the FIGARO.
Maj.: I fancy they want French children. Mind don't even speak French.
Em.: There's always a chance that one of them might turn out depraved and vicious, and then you could disown him. I've heard of that being done.
Maj.: But, good gracious, you've got to educate him first. You can't expect a boy to be vicious till he's been to a good school.
Em.: Why couldn't he be naturally depraved. Lots of boys are.
Maj.: Only when they inherit it from depraved parents. You don't suppose there's any depravity in me, do you?
Em.: It sometimes skips a generation, you know. Weren't any of your family bad?
Maj.: There was an aunt who was never spoken of.
Em.: There you are!
Maj.: But one can't build too much on that. In mid-Victorian days they labelled all sorts of things as unspeakable that we should speak about quite tolerantly. I dare say this particular aunt had only married a Unitarian, or rode to hounds on both sides of her horse, or something of that sort. Anyhow, we can't wait indefinitely for one of the children to take after a doubtfully depraved great-aunt. Something else must be thought of.
Em.: Don't people ever adopt children from other families?
Maj.: I've heard of it being done by childless couples, and those sort of people -
Em.: Hush! Some one's coming. Who is it?
Maj.: Mrs. Paly-Paget.
Em.: The very person!
Maj.: What, to adopt a child? Hasn't she got any?
Em.: Only one miserable hen-baby.
Maj.: Let's sound her on the subject.
(Enter Mrs. Paly-Paget, R.)
