Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: it is draped in
its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise-book, and school-books on it.
Bobby Gilbey is in the arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated
paper. He is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough
by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that
domestic restriction is what they call "bringing up." He has learnt nothing from it
except a habit of evading it by deceit.
He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answers the bell.
BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed!
JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir.
BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man.
JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you sir; and as I
take the money, I keep my part of the bargain.
BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it?
BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you.
BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have the
manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners. Anyhow, your
manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set.
JUGGINS. They would be, sir.
BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of Dora's
notion, I suppose.
