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She instinctively switches at
her Gozzoli fringe with her fingers, but gives it up as hopeless._
FRANKLYN. Mr Haslam, our new rector. [_To Haslam_] My daughter Cynthia.
CONRAD. Usually called Savvy, short for Savage.
SAVVY. I usually call Mr Haslam Bill, short for William. [_She strolls
to the hearthrug, and surveys them calmly from that commanding
position_].
FRANKLYN. You know him?
SAVVY. Rather. Sit down, Bill.
FRANKLYN. Mr Haslam is going, Savvy. He has an engagement.
SAVVY. I know. I'm the engagement.
CONRAD. In that case, would you mind taking him into the garden while I
talk to your father?
SAVVY [_to Haslam_] Tennis?
HASLAM. Rather!
SAVVY. Come on. [_She dances out. He runs boyishly after her_].
FRANKLYN [_leaving his table and beginning to walk up and down the room
discontentedly_] Savvy's manners jar on me. They would have horrified
her grandmother.
CONRAD [_obstinately_] They are happier manners than Mother's manners.
FRANKLYN. Yes: they are franker, wholesomer, better in a hundred ways.
And yet I squirm at them.


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