.

LADY (handing him the glass). Thank you. (In spite of the biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.)

      THE DENTIST (putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of instruments). That was my first tooth.

      THE YOUNG LADY (aghast). Your first! Do you mean to say that you began practising on me?

      THE DENTIST. Every dentist has to begin on somebody.

      THE YOUNG LADY. Yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay.

      THE DENTIST (laughing). Oh, the hospital doesn’t count. I only meant my first tooth in private practice. Why didn’t you let me give you gas?

      THE YOUNG LADY. Because you said it would be five shillings extra.

      THE DENTIST (shocked). Oh, don’t say that. It makes me feel as if I had hurt you for the sake of five shillings.

      THE YOUNG LADY (with cool insolence). Well, so you have! (She gets up.) Why shouldn’t you? it’s your business to hurt people. (It amuses him to be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean and replace his instruments. She shakes her dress into order; looks inquisitively about her; and goes to the window.) You have a good view of the sea from these rooms! Are they expensive?

      THE DENTIST. Yes.

      THE YOUNG LADY. You don’t own the whole house, do you?

      THE DENTIST. No.

      THE YOUNG LADY (taking the chair which stands at the writing-table and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg.) Your furniture isn’t quite the latest thing, is it?

      THE DENTIST. It’s my landlord’s.

      THE YOUNG LADY. Does he own that nice comfortable Bath chair? (pointing to the operating chair.)

      THE DENTIST. No: I have that on the hire-purchase system.

      THE YOUNG LADY (disparagingly). I thought so. (Looking about her again in search of further conclusions.) I suppose you haven’t been here long?

      THE DENTIST. Six weeks. Is there anything else you would like to know?

      THE YOUNG LADY (the hint quite lost on her). Any family?

      THE DENTIST. I am not married.

      THE YOUNG LADY. Of course not: anybody can see that. I meant sisters and mother and that sort of thing.

      THE DENTIST. Not on the premises.

      THE YOUNG LADY. Hm! If you’ve been here six weeks, and mine was your first tooth, the practice can’t be very large, can it?

      THE DENTIST. Not as yet. (He shuts the cabinet, having tidied up everything.)

      THE YOUNG LADY. Well, good luck! (She takes our her purse.) Five shillings, you said it would be?

      THE DENTIST. Five shillings.

      THE YOUNG LADY (producing a crown piece). Do you charge five shillings for everything?

      THE DENTIST. Yes.

      THE YOUNG LADY. Why?

      THE DENTIST. It’s my system. I’m what’s called a five shilling dentist.

      THE YOUNG LADY. How nice! Well, here! (holding up the crown piece) a nice new five shilling piece! your first fee! Make a hole in it with the thing you drill people’s teeth with and wear it on your watchchain.

      THE DENTIST. Thank you.

      THE PARLOR MAID (appearing at the door). The young lady’s brother, sir.

      A handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady’s twin, comes in eagerly. He wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat and tan gloves to match. He has his sister’s delicate biscuit complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal style which might be envied by a man twice his age. Suavity and self-possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly considered, is only the modern mode of boyish self-consciousness, its effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. He is promptitude itself, and has a question ready the moment he enters.

      THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Am I on time?

      THE YOUNG LADY. No: it’s all over.

      THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Did you howl?

      THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, something awful. Mr. Valentine: this is my brother Phil. Phil: this is Mr. Valentine, our new dentist. (Valentine and Phil bow to one another. She proceeds, all in one breath.) He’s only been here six weeks; and he’s a bachelor. The house isn’t his; and the furniture is the landlord’s; but the professional plant is hired. He got my tooth out beautifully at the first go; and he and I are great friends.

      PHILIP. Been asking a lot of questions?

      THE YOUNG LADY (as if incapable of doing such a thing). Oh, no.

      PHILIP. Glad to hear it. (To Valentine.) So good of you not to mind us, Mr. Valentine. The fact is, we’ve never been in England before; and our mother tells us that the people here simply won’t stand us. Come and lunch with us. (Valentine, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he has no opportunity of speaking, as the conversation of the twins is swift and continuous.)

      THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, do, Mr. Valentine.

      PHILIP. At the Marine Hotel — half past one.

      THE YOUNG LADY. We shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable Englishman has promised to lunch with us.

      PHILIP. Say no more, Mr. Valentine: you’ll come.

      VALENTINE. Say no more! I haven’t said anything. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of entertaining? It’s really quite impossible for me to lunch at the Marine Hotel with two perfect strangers.

      THE YOUNG LADY (flippantly). Ooooh! what bosh! One patient in six weeks! What difference does it make to you?

      PHILIP (maturely). No, Dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms Mr. Valentine’s judgment. He is right. Let me introduce Miss Dorothy Clandon, commonly called Dolly. (Valentine bows to Dolly. She nods to him.) I’m Philip Clandon. We’re from Madeira, but perfectly respectable, so far.

      VALENTINE. Clandon! Are you related to —

      DOLLY (unexpectedly crying out in despair). Yes, we are.

      VALENTINE (astonished). I beg your pardon?

      DOLLY. Oh, we are, we are. It’s all over, Phil: they know all about us in England. (To Valentine.) Oh, you can’t think how maddening it is to be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our own sakes.

      VALENTINE. But excuse me: the gentleman I was thinking of is not celebrated.

      DOLLY (staring at him). Gentleman! (Phil is also puzzled.)

      VALENTINE. Yes. I was going to ask whether you were by any chance a daughter of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall.

      DOLLY (vacantly). No.

      PHILIP. Well come, Dolly: how do you know you’re not?

      DOLLY (cheered). Oh, I forgot. Of course. Perhaps I am.

      VALENTINE. Don’t you know?

      PHILIP. Not in the least.

      DOLLY. It’s a wise child —

      PHILIP (cutting her short). Sh! (Valentine starts nervously; for the sound made by Philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of silk in two with a flash of lightning. It is the result of long practice in checking Dolly’s indiscretions.) The fact is, Mr. Valentine, we are the children of the celebrated Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon, an authoress of great repute — in Madeira. No household is complete without her works. We came to England to get away from them. The are called