ened by my father! That's
a sort of thing a man can't struggle against in England. The sooner
we go back together the better. [He appeals mutely to the heavens to
witness the shame and anguish of two outcasts].

VIOLET. [snubbing him with an instinctive dislike for scene making]
Don't be unreasonable, Hector. It was quite natural of Mr Malone to open
my letter: his name was on the envelope.

MALONE. There! You've no common sense, Hector. I thank you, Miss
Robinson.

HECTOR. I thank you, too. It's very kind of you. My father knows no
better.

MALONE. [furiously clenching his fists] Hector--

HECTOR. [with undaunted moral force] Oh, it's no use hectoring me. A
private letter's a private letter, dad: you can't get over that.

MALONE [raising his voice] I won't be talked back to by you, d'y' hear?

VIOLET. Ssh! please, please. Here they all come.

Father and son, checked, glare mutely at one another as Tanner comes in
through the little gate with Ramsden, followed by Octavius and Ann.

VIOLET. Back already!

TANNER. The Alhambra is not open this afternoon.

VIOLET. What a sell!

Tanner passes on, and presently finds himself between Hector and a
strange elder, both apparently on the verge of personal combat. He looks
from one to the other for an explanation. They sulkily avoid his eye,
and nurse their wrath in silence.

RAMSDEN. Is it wise for you to be out in the sunshine with such a
headache, Violet?

TANNER. Have you recovered too, Malone?

VIOLET. Oh, I forgot. We have not all met before. Mr Malone: won't you
introduce your father?

HECTOR. [with Roman firmness] No, I will not. He is no father of mine.

MALONE. [very angry] You disown your dad before your English friends, do
you?

VIOLET. Oh please don't make a scene.

Ann and Octavius, lingering near the gate, exchange an astonished
glance, and discreetly withdraw up the steps to the garden, where they
can enjoy the disturbance without intruding. On their way to the steps
Ann sends a little grimace of mute sympathy to Violet, who is standing
with her back to the little table, looking on in helpless annoyance as
her husband soars to higher and higher moral eminences without the least
regard to the old man's millions.

HECTOR. I'm very sorry, Miss Robinson; but I'm contending for a
principle. I am a son, and, I hope, a dutiful one; but before everything
I'm a Man!!! And when dad treats my private letters as his own, and
takes it on himself to sa