CRICHTON (putting his hand on her shoulder like a protector). We shall fight your vulgarity together. (All this time he has been arranging sticks for his fire.) Now get some dry grass. (She brings him grass, and he puts it under the sticks. He produces an odd lens from his pocket, and tries to focus the sun’s rays.) TWEENY. Why, what’s that? CRICHTON (the ingenious creature). That’s the glass from my watch and one from Mr. Treherne’s, with a little water between them. I’m hoping to kindle a fire with it. TWEENY (properly impressed). Oh sir! (After one failure the grass takes fire, and they are blowing on it when excited cries near by bring them sharply to their feet. AGATHA runs to them, white of face, followed by ERNEST.) ERNEST. Danger! Crichton, a tiger-cat! CRICHTON (getting his cutlass). Where? AGATHA. It is at our heels. ERNEST. Look out, Crichton. CRICHTON. H’sh! (TREHERNE comes to his assistance, while LADY MARY and CATHERINE join AGATHA in the hut.) ERNEST. It will be on us in a moment. (He seizes the hatchet and guards the hut. It is pleasing to see that ERNEST is no coward.) TREHERNE. Listen! ERNEST. The grass is moving. It’s coming. (It comes. But it is no tiger-cat; it is LORD LOAM crawling on his hands and knees, a very exhausted and dishevelled peer, wondrously attired in rags. The girls see him, and with glad cries rush into his arms.) LADY MARY. Father. LORD LOAM. Mary--Catherine--Agatha. Oh dear, my dears, my dears, oh dear! LADY MARY. Darling. AGATHA. Sweetest. CATHERINE. Love. TREHERNE. Glad to see you, sir. ERNEST. Uncle, uncle, dear old uncle. (For a time such happy cries fill the air, but presently TREHERNE is thoughtless.) TREHERNE. Ernest thought you were a tiger-cat. LORD LOAM (stung somehow to the quick). Oh, did you? I knew you at once, Ernest; I knew you by the way you ran. (ERNEST smiles forgivingly.) CRICHTON (venturing forward at last). My lord, I am glad. ERNEST (with upraised finger). But you are also idling, Crichton. (Making himself comfortable on the ground.) We mustn’t waste time. To work, to work. CRICHTON (after contemplating him without rancour). Yes, sir. (He gets a pot from the hut and hangs it on a tripod over the fire, which is now burning brightly.) TREHERNE. Ernest, you be a little more civil. Crichton, let me help. (He is soon busy helping CRICHTON to add to the strength of the hut.) LORD LOAM (gazing at the pot as ladies are said to gaze on precious stones). Is that--but I suppose I’m dreaming again. (Timidly.) It isn’t by any chance a pot on top of a fire, is it? LADY MARY. Indeed, it is, dearest. It is our supper. LORD LOAM. I have been dreaming of a pot on a fire for two days. (Quivering.) There ‘s nothing in it, is there? ERNEST. Sniff, uncle. (LORD LOAM sniffs.) LORD LOAM (reverently). It smells of onions! (There is a sudden diversion.) CATHERINE. Father, you have boots! LADY MARY. So he has. LORD LOAM. Of course I have.