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JACK (coming in). Sorry. Are you engaged? (He sees them beneath that beastly picture, and a look of resigned despair comes into his face—he shrugs his shoulders.)

BROXOPP (to MISS JOHNS). My boy Jack. Eton and Oxford.

(And he looks it, too—except perhaps for his hair, which is just a little more in keeping with his artistic future than his educational past.)

MISS JOHNS (now completely upset). How do you do? It’s so nice to see the—I mean, we were just looking—but I mustn’t keep you, Mr.Broxopp—and thank you so much, and I’m so sorry that you—but of course I quite understand. Good-bye! Good-bye! (And she hurries out.)

JACK (strolling towards the sofa). Bit nervous, isn’t she?

BROXOPP. You frightened her.

JACK (sitting down). Fleet Street—and all that?

BROXOPP. Yes. (Looking round the room) Where’s my hat?

ssss1JACK. I say, you’re not going?

BROXOPP. Must. Got to work, Jack. (Looking at him mischievously) When are you going to begin?

JACK (airily). Oh, as soon as I’ve got the studio fixed up.