Twelve o'clock, Sunday morning, end of June. With the rising of the Curtain, enter the Butler. As he is going, with majestic port, to answer the door L., enter briskly from the garden, by lower French window, Lady John Wynnstay, flushed, and flapping a garden hat to fan herself. She is a pink-cheeked woman of fifty-four, who has plainly been a beauty, keeps her complexion, but is "gone to fat." Lady John. Has Miss Levering come down yet? Butler (pausing C.). I haven't seen her, m'lady. Lady John (almost sharply as Butler turns L.). I won't have her disturbed if she's resting. (To herself as she goes to writing-table.) She certainly needs it. Butler. Yes, m'lady. Lady John (sitting at writing-table, her back to front door). But I want her to know the moment she comes down that the new plans arrived by the morning post. Butler (pausing nearly at the door). Plans, m'la-- Lady John. She'll understand. There they are. (Glancing at the clock.) It's very important she should have them in time to look over before she goes-- (Butler opens the door L.) (Over her shoulder.) Is that Miss Levering? Butler. No, m'lady. Mr. Farnborough. [Exit Butler. (Enter the Hon. R. Farnborough. He is twenty-six; reddish hair, high-coloured, sanguine, self-important.)