course there you have the
advantage of me.

TRANTO. Don't you care a little--

HILDEGARDE (_letting herself go_). Why should I care? What have I done
to make you imagine I care? It's quite true that I've saved your
newspaper from an early grave. It was suffering from rickets, spinal
curvature, and softening of the brain; and I've performed a miraculous
cure on it with my articles. I'm Sampson Straight. But that's not enough
for you. You can't keep sentiment out of business. No man ever could.
You'd like Sampson Straight to wear blouses and bracelets for you, and
loll on sofas for you, and generally offer you the glad eye. It's an
insult. And then on the top of all, you go and give the whole show away
to papa, in spite of our understanding; and if papa hadn't been the
greatest dear in the world you might have got me into the most serious
difficulties.

TRANTO (_equably, after a pause_), I don't think I'll ask myself to stay
for lunch.

HILDEGARDE. Good morning.

TRANTO (_near the door_). I suppose I'd better announce that he's died
very suddenly under mysterious circumstances?

HILDEGARDE. Who?

TRANTO. Sampson Straight.

HILDEGARDE. And what about my new article, that you've got in hand?

TRANTO. It can be a posthumous article, in a black border.

HILDEGARDE. Indeed! And why shouldn't Sampson Straight transfer his
services to another paper? There are several who'd jump at him.

TRANTO. I never thought of that.

HILDEGARDE. Naturally!

TRANTO. He shall live.

(_A pause_. Tranto _bows, and exit, back_.)

(Hildegarde _subsides once more on to the sofa_.)

_Enter_ Culver, _in his velvet coat, L_.

CULVER (_softly, with sprightliness_). Hello, Sampson!

HILDEGARDE. Dad, please don't call me that.

CULVER. Not when we're alone? Why?

HILDEGARDE. I--I--Dad, I'm in a fearful state of nerves just now. Lost
my temper and all sorts of calamities.

CULVER. Really! I'd no idea. I gathered that the interview between you
and your mother had passed quite smoothly.

HILDEGARDE. Oh! _That!_

CULVER. What do you mean--'Oh! _That!_'?

HILDEGARDE (_standing; in a new, less gloomy tone_). Papa, what are you
doing out of bed? You're very ill.

CULVER. Well, I'd managed to dress before your mother and Johnnie came.
As soon as they imparted to me the glad tidings that baronetcies were
off I felt so well I decided to come down and thank you for your
successful efforts on behalf of the family well-being. I'm no l