MRS. BRAMSON: You know, you mustn't think just because this house is lonely you're going to get a rise in salary. Oh, no.... I expect you've an idea I'm worth a good bit of money, haven't you?... It isn't my money you're after, is it? OLIVIA (_setting chairs to rights round the table_): I'm sorry, but my sense of humour can't stand the strain. I'll have to go. MRS. BRAMSON: Can you afford to go? OLIVIA (_after a pause, controlling herself_): You know I can't. MRS. BRAMSON: Then don't talk such nonsense. Clear the breakfast things. OLIVIA _hesitates, then crosses to the kitchen door._ (_Muttering_): Sense of humour indeed, never heard of such a thing.... OLIVIA (_at the door_): Mrs. Terence, will you clear away? _She goes to the left window, and looks out._ MRS. BRAMSON: You wait, my girl. Pride comes before a fall. Won't catch a husband with your nose in the air, you know. OLIVIA: I don't want a husband. MRS. BRAMSON: Don't like men, I suppose? Never heard of them, I suppose? Don't believe you. See? OLIVIA (_resigned_): I see. It's going to be a fine day. MRS. BRAMSON (_taking up "East Lynne" from the table_): It'll cloud over, I expect. OLIVIA: I don't think so. The trees look beautiful with the sun on them. Everything looks so clean. (_Lifting up three books from the window seat_) Shall I pack the other half of Mrs. Henry Wood? MRS. BRAMSON: Mrs. Henry Wood? Who's Mrs. Henry Wood? Pack the other half of Mrs. Henry Wood? What are you talking about? OLIVIA: She wrote your favourite book--_East Lynne_. MRS. BRAMSON (_looking at her book_): Oh ... (_Picking a paper out of it_.) What's this? (_Reading ponderously_) A sonnet. "The flame of passion is not red but white, not quick but slow--" OLIVIA (_going to her and snatching it from her with a cry_): Don't! MRS. BRAMSON: Writing poetry! That's a hobby and a half, I must say! "Flame of passion ..." _well!_ OLIVIA (_crossing to the fireplace_): It's only a silly poem I amused myself with at college. It's not meant for anybody but me. MRS. BRAMSON: You're a dark horse, you are. MRS. TERENCE _enters from the kitchen. She is the cook, middle-aged, Cockney, and fearless. She carries a bunch of roses_. MRS. TERENCE (_grimly_): Would you be wanting anything? MRS. BRAMSON: Yes. Clear away. MRS. TERENCE: That's Dora's job. Where's Dora? OLIVIA: She's gone into the clearing for some firewood. MRS. BRAMSON: You can't expect the girl to gather firewood with one hand and clear breakfast with the other. Clear away. MRS. TERENCE (_crossing to the table, under her breath_): All right, you sour-faced old hag. HUBERT _drops his pipe_. MRS. BRAMSON _winces_ and looks away. MRS. TERENCE clears the table. HUBERT (_to_ OLIVIA): What--what was that she said? MRS. TERENCE: She 'eard. And then she 'as to save 'er face and pretend she 'asn't. She knows nobody but me'd stay with 'er a day if I went. MRS. BRAMSON: She oughtn't to talk to me like that. I know she steals my sugar.