Leo. (_excitedly, walking about, while Edmund takes his place by the fire_). Is that any reason for laughing at me? I don't know anything about hockey, but I don't laugh at Flo and Elsie for playing. As I tell them, mutual tolerance is the only basis for family life. If I were a large-limbed athlete they'd bow down and worship, but as I've got a sense of beauty and no brawn they simply bully the life out of me. Edmund. You're sure you do tolerate them? Leo. Of course I do. I'd rather have a sister who's a football maniac any day than a sister who's a politician. There's some beauty in catching balls, but there's no beauty in catching votes. What I complain of is that there's no seriousness in this house about the things that matter. Edmund. Such as--poetry? Leo. Oh, now _you're_ getting at me. All right. I'm used to it. Being serious about poetry's better than being serious about football, anyhow. Edmund. Sonnets have their place in the scheme of things. Leo. A high place, too. Edmund. I agree with you in putting them above football. Leo. Then you'll find yourself unpopular here, Edmund. At the same time, it's possible to overdo the sonnets, Leo. Leo. Never. Art demands all. Edmund. My dear boy, if you're going to talk about art and temperament, and all the other catchwords---- Leo. I'm not. I'm only asking you to tell them you believe in my genius and then they'll drop thinking I'm making an ass of myself. Edmund. I see. By the way, what are you making of yourself, Leo? Leo. A poet, I hope. Edmund. I meant for a living. Leo. I have a weak lung. Edmund. Is that your occupation? Leo. It is my tragedy. Edmund. Um. Leo. You will speak to them for me, uncle? They'll listen to you. At least you come from London, where people are civilized. Edmund. Are they? In London I hold a brief for the culture of the provinces. Leo. You took jolly good care to get away from the provinces, yourself. And you mustn't tell me you think Blackton is cultured. Edmund. I heard my first Max Reger sonata in Blackton long before London had found him. Leo. Music's another matter. Edmund. Yes. Your father played it to me. Leo. Well, there you are again. Music and football are the only things he cares about. That's just what I complain of. I've tried to raise his tastes, but I find generally a lack of seriousness in men of his age. Of course' there are exceptions. Edmund. Thank you. (_Enter Florence Whitworth, in golfing tweeds with bag, and without hat, hair tumbled by the wind. She is a largemade girl of eighteen, supremely healthy and athletic._) Florence. May I hide in here? Leo. What's there to hide from? Florence. Eleanor Smith is tackling Elsie in the hall to play hockey for the High School Old Girls this afternoon. When she finds Elsie won't, she'll want to try me, so I'll keep out of the way, please. Edmund. And why won't Elsie?