BEATRICE. [_putting her case very precisely._] I've had to earn my own living, consequently there isn't one thing in my life that I have ever done quite genuinely for its own sake . . but always with an eye towards bread-and-butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that. Happiness has been my only independence. _The conservatory door opens and through it come_ MR. VOYSEY _and_ MR. BOOTH _in the midst of a discussion_. MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and risk it. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, of course, if you seriously advise me-- MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children; I let 'em overeat 'emselves and take the consequences-- ALICE. [_shaking a finger._] Uncle Trench, you've been in the garden without a hat after playing billiards in that hot room. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist was bad. They've started pool. BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play? MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold a cue. BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter. _Off she goes._ ALICE _is idly following with a little paper her hand has fallen on behind the clock_. MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear. ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries . . she wants it. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my shoe. MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early to have put in those plants? MR. VOYSEY. No, we're getting frost at night already. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further from the tree. MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold. Why don't they keep the fire up! [_He proceeds to put coals on it._] MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know, Voysey . . about those Alguazils? MR. VOYSEY. [_through the rattling of the coals._] What? MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_trying to pierce the din._] Those Alguazils. MR. VOYSEY _with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk handkerchief across_ MR. BOOTH'S _shirt front_. MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there for? MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Measure of precau--[_at that moment he sneezes._] Damn it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal garden-- MR. VOYSEY. [_slapping him on the back._] You're an old crock. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [_He returns to his subject._] And if you think seriously, that I ought to sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [_He looks with childlike enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly._] Why can't you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad. _At this moment_ PHOEBE, _the middle aged parlour-maid comes in, tray in hand. Like an expert fisherman_ MR. VOYSEY _once more lets loose the thread of the conversation_. MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear? PHOEBE. It doesn't matter, sir. MR. VOYSEY. No, go on . . go on.