MRS. DERMOTT. Do, dear--but please don't make the heroine jump out of attic windows or anything--it _is_ so trying for Sylvia--I shall never forget Westminster Bridge and that horse. DANIEL. It appears to be a most dashing profession. MRS. DERMOTT (_with pride_). Oh, it is. Sylvia does the most thrilling things, I assure you. She had to rescue the Rajah from a burning house in Piccadilly only last Wednesday. It caused a great sensation. DANIEL. So I should imagine, but why was the Rajah burning in Piccadilly? MRS. DERMOTT. Oh, it wasn't a real Rajah of course--but he was supposed to be in the clutch of Bolshevists--or was that another film, Sylvia?--I get so muddled---- SYLVIA. It was another film, mother, but it doesn't matter. How's your illness, Uncle Dan? You look pretty bright. DANIEL. Oh, I expect to be quite cheery right up to the last. MRS. DERMOTT. Oh, Danny dear, don't talk about it. DANIEL (_with meaning_). I always think we attach too much importance to life and death. MRS. CROMBIE (_acidly_). It depends on circumstances, of course. DANIEL (_dramatically_). Out there where I come from---- JOYCE. Go on, uncle, do tell us. DANIEL. I was just going to, only you interrupted me--out there on the limitless prairie, a man's life is not considered worth that much. (_He tries to snap his fingers without any success._) There now, I can never do that properly--that much. (_He tries again._) Damn! BOBBIE. I can do it, uncle. (_He does it._) JOYCE. So can I. (_She tries._) Oh, no I can't--Sylvia, you can. You had to when you were playing in "Spanish Passion." SYLVIA. Never mind now, let uncle get on with his story. DANIEL. Out there Death waits round every corner---- BOBBIE. I didn't know there were any corners on the limitless prairie. DANIEL (_testily_). I was millions of miles away from any prairie--and, anyhow, I was only speaking metaphorically. SYLVIA. You are irritating, Bobbie, why can't you keep quiet. MRS. CROMBIE. There seems to be some doubt, Mr. Davis, as to what part of America you were in. DANIEL. South America--firmly South America--in the little tiny wee, bijou village of Santa Lyta--far away from the beaten track, this lonely place lies basking in the sun. Heavens, how it basked! its natives care-free and irresponsible, dreaming idly through the long summer heat---- OLIVER. What did you do there, uncle? DANIEL. Eh? OLIVER. What did you do there, uncle? DANIEL (_coming to earth_). Oh, er--lots of things--fishing--yachting. BOBBIE. But I thought it was inland. DANIEL. Eh? BOBBIE. I thought it was inland. DANIEL. So it is, but there's a lake, there's a lake! We used to sit round the camp fire in the evenings and cook the fish--yes, salmon and cucumber, and sing songs--sweet little homely ditties--your Rose song in particular, Bobbie, was a great success, I must say that---- BOBBIE. Don't perjure yourself, uncle, I know perfectly well that it's the worst thing that has ever been written.