He writes letters to the papers,
which are printed in a type to scale with himself, and he is very
jealous of those other correspondents who get his type. Let laws and
learning, art and commerce die, but leave the big type to an
intellectual aristocracy. He is really the reformed House of Lords
which will come some day.
Young LORD BROCKLEHURST is nothing save for his rank. You could pick
him up by the handful any day in Piccadilly or Holborn, buying
socks--or selling them.)
LORD LOAM (expansively). You are here, Ernest. Feeling fit for the
voyage, Treherne?
TREHERNE. Looking forward to it enormously.
LORD LOAM. That's right. (He chases his children about as if they
were chickens.) Now then, Mary, up and doing, up and doing. Time we
had the servants in. They enjoy it so much.
LADY MARY. They hate it.
LORD LOAM. Mary, to your duties. (And he points severely to the tea-
table.)
ERNEST (twinkling). Congratulations, Brocky.
LORD BROCKLEHURST (who detests humour).
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