MRS. MORLAND. A sub-lieutenant now. MR. MORLAND. Same thing. Why, Fanny, I still tip him. At least I did a year ago. And he liked it: ‘Thanks no end, you are a trump,’ he said, and then slipped behind the screen to see how much it was. MRS. MORLAND. He is a very delightful creature; but he isn’t a boy any more. MR. MORLAND. It’s not nice of you to put such ideas into my head. I’ll go down to the boat-house at once. If this new invention was in working order, Fanny, I could send him packing without rising from my seat. I should simply say from this sofa, ‘Is my little Mary Rose there?’ (_To their surprise there is an answer from MARY ROSE unseen._) MARY ROSE (_in a voice more quaking than is its wont_). I’m here, Daddy. MR. MORLAND (_rising_). Where are you, Mary Rose? MARY ROSE. I am in the apple-tree. (_MRS. MORLAND smiles and is going to the window, but her husband checks her with a further exhibition of the marvel of the future._) MR. MORLAND. What are you doing in the apple-tree, hoyden? MARY ROSE. I’m hiding. MR. MORLAND. From Simon? MARY ROSE. No; I’m not sure whom I’m hiding from. From myself, I think. Daddy, I’m frightened. MR. MORLAND. What has frightened you? Simon? MARY ROSE. Yes--partly. MR. MORLAND. Who else? MARY ROSE. I am most afraid of my daddy. MR. MORLAND (_rather flattered_). Of _me_? (_If there is anything strange about this girl of eighteen who steps from the tree into the room, it is an elusiveness of which she is unaware. It has remained hidden from her girl friends, though in the after years, in the brief space before they forget her, they will probably say, because of what happened, that there was always something a little odd about MARY ROSE. This oddness might be expressed thus, that the happiness and glee of which she is almost overfull know of another attribute of her that never plays with them._ _There is nothing splendid about MARY ROSE, never can she become one of those secret women so much less innocent than she, yet perhaps so much sweeter in the kernel, who are the bane or glory, or the bane and glory, of greater lovers than she could ever understand. She is just a rare and lovely flower, far less fitted than those others for the tragic rôle._ _She butts her head into MRS. MORLAND with a childish impulsiveness that might overthrow a less accustomed bosom._) MARY ROSE (_telling everything_). Mother! MR. MORLAND. You don’t mean that anything has really frightened you, Mary Rose? MARY ROSE. I am not sure. Hold me tight, Mother. MRS. MORLAND. Darling, has Simon been disturbing you? MARY ROSE (_liking this way of putting it_). Yes, he has. It is all Simon’s fault. MR. MORLAND. But you said you were afraid even of me. MARY ROSE. You are the only one. MR. MORLAND. Is this some game? Where is Simon?