MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where the taint crept in. MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself putting in all those strawberry plants. MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_ HUGH _and plants it on the table_. MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting. There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._] THE THIRD ACT _The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon. Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches, biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_ PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_. MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the drawing room. PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the door. MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR. BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very tenderly._ MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here? MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you. _With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._ MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer. MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch? MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine? MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round. MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you. _He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He shakes hands with them both._ MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!