MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm particular about not disturbin' things. CLARE. I'm sure you are. MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular. Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and drops it into the fold of her skirt. MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere bawgwars. CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later. MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh every mornin'--the Westminister. She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up. MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut 'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer! She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves restlessly across the room. MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's waitin'. CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture "Sacred and Profane Love." MRS. MILER stands regarding her with a Chinese smile. MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still hanging to his cheek. MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to her] Do the other room. [Enigmatically she goes.] MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything? CLARE. I want advice-badly. MALISE. What! Spreading your wings? CLARE. Yes. MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When? CLARE. The morning after you gave it me . . . MALISE. Well? CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good. He was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't. MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong to us. Yes.