SOREL: I should like to be a fresh, open-air girl with a passion for games. SIMON: Thank God you’re not. SOREL: It would be so soothing. SIMON: Not in this house. SOREL: Where’s Mother? SIMON: In the garden, practising. SOREL: Practising? SIMON: She’s learning the names of the flowers by heart. SOREL: What’s she up to? SIMON: I don’t know.—Damn! that’s crooked. SOREL: I always distrust her when she becomes the Squire’s lady. SIMON: So do I. SOREL: She’s been at it hard all day—she tapped the barometer this morning. SIMON: She’s probably got a plan about impressing somebody. SOREL (_taking a cigarette_): I wonder who. SIMON: Some dreary, infatuated young man will appear soon, I expect. SOREL: Not to-day? You don’t think she’s asked anyone down to-day, do you? SIMON: I don’t know. Has Father noticed anything? SOREL: No; he’s too immersed in work. SIMON: Perhaps Clara will know. SOREL: Yell for her. SIMON (_calling_): Clara! Clara!... SOREL: Oh, Simon, I _do_ hope she hasn’t asked anyone down to-day. SIMON: Why? Have you? SOREL: Yes. SIMON (_crossly_): Why on earth didn’t you tell me? SOREL: I didn’t think you’d care one way or another. SIMON: Who is it? SOREL: Richard Greatham. SIMON: How exciting! I’ve never heard of him. SOREL: I shouldn’t flaunt your ignorance if I were you—it makes you look silly. SIMON (_rising_): Well, that’s done. (_He rolls up the cartridge paper._) SOREL: Everybody’s heard of Richard Greatham. SIMON (_amiably_): How lovely for them. SOREL: He’s a frightfully well-known diplomatist—I met him at the Mainwarings’ dance. SIMON: He’ll need all his diplomacy here. SOREL: I warned him not to expect good manners, but I hope you’ll be as pleasant to him as you can. SIMON (_gently_): I’ve never met any diplomatists, Sorel, but as a class I’m extremely prejudiced against them. They’re so suave and polished and debonair. SOREL: You could be a little more polished without losing caste. SIMON: Will he have the papers with him? SOREL: What papers? SIMON (_vaguely_): Oh, any papers. SOREL: I wish you’d confine your biting irony to your caricatures, Simon. SIMON: And I wish you’d confine your girlish infatuations to London, and not force them on your defenceless family. SOREL: I shall keep him out of your way as much as possible. SIMON: Do, darling. [_Enter CLARA. She is a hot, round, untidy little woman._ SIMON: Clara, has Mother asked anyone down this week-end? CLARA: I don’t know, dear. There isn’t much food in the house, and Amy’s got toothache. SOREL: I’ve got some oil of cloves somewhere. CLARA: She tried that, but it only burnt her tongue. The poor girl’s been writhing about in the scullery like one o’clock. SOREL: You haven’t forgotten to put those flowers in the Japanese room? SIMON: The Japanese room is essentially feminine, and entirely unsuited to the Pet of the Foreign Office. SOREL: Shut up, Simon.