But your naughty, naughty conscience came and asserted itself. Ha! Ha! What a silly little boy it is! A downright stupid little boy! Pierre. My imagination was always rather easily aroused. I---- Julia (_laughing without restraint_). Such a stupid boy!--Pierre, let's make some coffee--for a change, eh? Pierre. But you know--I have to---- Julia. Dear me, mamma has had her tea long ago. Tell her you sat down in the shade--and fell asleep--anything! It's growing a bit shady here now. See there! The streaks of light have gone. (_Indicates a corner of the room in which the streaks of light have just grown dim._) Ah! but how hot it is! (_Tears her dress open at the throat, breathing heavily._) Will you bring me the coffee-pot, like a good boy? Pierre (_listlessly_). Oh, well--all right. (_Carries the coffee-pot to the table._) Julia. Pierre, you--you couldn't open the small door just a tiny bit? No one would look into the shrubbery. Pierre. Well, out there in the shrubbery, it's even hotter than in here. Julia. Oh, just try it--won't you? Pierre. Well, you'll see! (_Opens the door at the left._) Julia. Whew! It's like a blast from a furnace! And that disgusting odour--a mixture of perspiration and bad perfume--ugh! Pierre. That's from the roses of our by-gone days--they lie out there in great heaps. Julia. Close the door! Hurry--close it! Pierre (_does so_). I told you how it would be! Julia. Well, perhaps you could adjust the shutters at the large door so that we'd get more fresh air in here. Pierre. Even that would be dangerous. If some one happened to be looking this way and saw the movement---- Julia (_going to the door_). One has to do it slowly, ve-ry slow-ly-- (_She starts, uttering a low cry of fear, and retreats to the foreground, her arms outstretched as if she were warding off a ghost._) Pierre. What's the matter? Julia. Sh! Sh! (_Approaches him cautiously, then softly._) There's a man--out there. Pierre. Where? Julia. Hush! Come here you can see it against the light. (_They cautiously change places_. Pierre _utters a low shriek, then_ Julia, _softly, despairingly_) Pierre! Pierre. It must be the gardener. Julia. It's not--the--gardener. Pierre. Who is it then?