_A railed-in corner of the Park. TIME--About 7 p.m. Inside the enclosure three shepherds are engaged in shearing the park sheep. The first shepherd has just thrown his patient on its back, gripped its shoulders between his knees, and tucked its head, as a tiresome and obstructive excrescence, neatly away under one of his arms, while he reaches for the shears. The second is straddled across his animal, which is lying with its hind legs hobbled on a low stage under an elm, in a state of stoical resignation, as its fleece is deftly nipped from under its chin. The third operator has almost finished his sheep, which, as its dark grey fleece slips away from its pink-and-white neck and shoulders, suggests a rather décolletée dowager in the act of removing her theatre-cloak in the stalls. Sheep, already shorn, lie and pant in shame and shivering bewilderment, one or two nibble the blades of grass, as if to assure themselves that that resource is still open to them. Sheep whose turn is still to come are penned up at the back, and look on, scandalised, but with an air which seems to express that their own superior respectability is a sufficient protection against similar outrage. The shearers appear to take a humorous view of their task, and are watched by a crowd which has collected round the railings, with an agreeable assurance that they are not expected to contribute towards the entertainment._ FIRST WORK-GIRL (_edging up_). Whatever's goin' on inside 'ere? (_After looking--disappointed._) Why they ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that. SECOND WORK-GIRL (_with irony_). They _look_ like Reciters, don't they! It do seem a shime cuttin' them poor things as close as convicks, that it do! FIRST W.-G. They don't mind it partickler; you'd 'ear 'em 'oller fast enough if they did. SECOND W.-G. I expeck they feel so redic'lus, they 'aven't the 'art to 'oller. LUCILLA (_to GEORGE_). Do look at that one going up and sniffing at the bundle of fleeces, trying to find out which is his. _Isn't_ it pathetic? GEORGE. H'm--puts one in mind of a shy man in a cloak-room after a party, saying feebly, "I rather think that's _my_ coat, and there's a crush hat of mine _somewhere_ about," eh? LUCILLA (_who is always wishing that GEORGE would talk more sensibly_). Considering that sheep don't _wear_ crush hats, I hardly see how---- GEORGE. My dear, I bow to your superior knowledge of natural history. Now you mention it, I believe it _is_ unusual. But I merely meant to suggest a general resemblance. [Illustration: "They ain't on'y a lot o' sheep! I thought it was Reciters, or somethink o' that."] LUCILLA (_reprovingly_). I know. And you've got into such a silly habit of seeing resemblances in things that are perfectly different. I'm sure I'm _always_ telling you of it. GEORGE. You are, my dear. But I'm not nearly so bad as I _was_. Think of all the things I used to compare _you_ to before we were married!