_Viola._ You are quite wrong. She had writer's cramp, poor thing! _Muriel._ How absurd, VIOLA! How are you, Dr. ROBERTS! [Dr. ROBERTS _has iron-grey hair and dark eyes. As he joins them_ MURIEL _leans down to pat a dog with all the graceful self-consciousness of youth._ Dr. ROBERTS _looks at_ VIOLA _admiringly_. _Viola._ I hope poor JANE is better? _Dr. Roberts._ Oh yes; she is quite out of the wood now, Mrs. TRAVERS. In fact, I don't think I need see her anymore. (MURIEL _looks up._) Perhaps though, I had better just look in--say--on Thursday? _Viola._ Do; and stay and have some tennis. [Dr. ROBERTS _accepts with evident enthusiasm, and takes leave with obvious regret_. _Muriel_ (_watching him drive away_). Dr. ROBERTS admires you dreadfully. Is that a romance? _Viola._ For him perhaps--not for me! And it isn't a mystery! [_A telegram is brought in._ _Viola._ Oh, how delightful! ALAN ROY, the wonderful boy harpist, is coming down! He's coming by the early train! He'll be here directly! _Muriel._ You never told me you had asked him! I suppose you forgot it--or remembered it. Doesn't he profess to be even younger than he is? I mean, when he was four, didn't he say he was three? I wonder if he'll come down in a sailor-suit. _Viola._ He's quite nineteen. Here are those tiresome AVERIDGES again! I thought I got rid of them for a long drive. (_Aloud._) Ah! Here is dear Mr. AVERIDGE! _Mr. Averidge_ (_ponderously, to_ MURIEL). And how is Miss VANE to-day? Looking as she always does, like a rose in June. _Muriel_ (_coldly_). Yes, Mr. AVERIDGE? _Viola_ (_to_ Mrs. AVERIDGE _and_ ALBERT, _who are coming up the steps of the terrace_). ALAN ROY is coming down, _the_ ALAN ROY. He will be here directly. _Albert._ All right, though I don't approve of child artists. Poor little chap! _Viola._ He is very nearly quite grown up, ALBERT! He has golden hair and any amount of _usage du monde_. _Muriel._ ALBERT will call it _cheek_--I daresay! _Mrs. Averidge._ He is most amusing. I met him at Lady BAYSWATER'S. He looks quite an angel playing the harp. _Albert._ I hope he'll bring his halo in a hat-box. What is that text about "Young lions do lack----" _Muriel._ Oh, ALBERT! _Servant._ Master ALAN ROY! _Albert_ (_aside_). Now, don't make the poor child shy. _Enter_ ALAN ROY. _Tall young man, in light grey suit. He wears a turned-down collar, a pink button-hole, and carries a little stick._ _Alan._ How _are_ you, Mrs. TRAVERS? So sweet of you to ask me! Isn't it a _dear_ day! [_Greetings._ _Mr. Averidge._ And how did the infant prodigy manage to get here all alone? _Alan._ I pushed myself in a perambulator. Miss VANE, you look like a Botticelli in a Paris dress. I didn't bring my harp, _does_ it matter? [_Chorus of sham disappointment and real relief._ _Alan_ (_smiling_). It was dreadful of me! But I have been keeping the poor thing up so late; I thought a rest----