ANABEL. I think you will. You are a sculptor, Winifred.--Isn't there someone there? WINIFRED (running to the door). Oh, Oliver! OLIVER. Hello, Winnie! Can I come in? This is your sanctum: you can keep us out if you like. WINIFRED. Oh, no. Do you know Miss Wrath, Oliver? She's a famous sculptress. OLIVER. Is she? We have met.--Is Winifred going to make a sculptress, do you think? ANABEL. I do. OLIVER. Good! I like your studio, Winnie. Awfully nice up here over the out-buildings. Are you happy in it? WINIFRED. Yes, I'm perfectly happy--only I shall NEVER be able to make real models, Oliver--it's so difficult. OLIVER. Fine room for a party--Give us a studio party one day, Win, and we'll dance. WINIFRED (flying to him). Yes, Oliver, do let us dance. What shall we dance to? OLIVER. Dance?--Dance _Vigni-vignons_--we all know that. Ready? WINIFRED. Yes. (They begin to sing, dancing meanwhile, in a free little ballet-manner, a wine-dance, dancing separate and then together.) De terre en vigne, La voila la jolie vigne, Vigni-vignons--vignons le vin, La voila la jolie vigne au vin, La voila la jolie vigne. OLIVER. Join in--join in, all. (ANABEL joins in; the three dance and move in rhythm.) WINIFRED. I love it--I love it! Do _Ma capote a trois boutons_--you know it, don't you, Anabel? Ready--now--- (They begin to dance to a quick little march-rhythm, all singing and dancing till they are out of breath.) OLIVER. Oh!--tired!--let us sit down. WINIFRED. Oliver!--oh, Oliver!--I LOVE you and Anabel. OLIVER. Oh, Winifred, I brought you a present--you'll love me more now. WINIFRED. Yes, I shall. Do give it me. OLIVER. I left it in the morning-room. I put it on the mantel-piece for you. WINIFRED. Shall I go for it? OLIVER. There it is, if you want it. WINIFRED. Yes--do you mind? I won't be long. (Exit.) OLIVER. She's a nice child. ANABEL. A VERY nice child. OLIVER. Why did you come back, Anabel? ANABEL. Why does the moon rise, Oliver? OLIVER. For some mischief or other, so they say. ANABEL. You think I came back for mischief's sake? OLIVER. Did you? ANABEL. No. OLIVER. Ah! ANABEL. Tell me, Oliver, how is everything now?--how is it with you?--how is it between us all? OLIVER. How is it between us all?--How ISN'T it, is more the mark. ANABEL. Why? OLIVER. You made a fool of us. ANABEL. Of whom? OLIVER. Well--of Gerald particularly--and of me. ANABEL. How did I make a fool of you, Oliver? OLIVER. That you know best, Anabel. ANABEL. No, I don't know. Was it ever right between Gerald and me, all the three years we knew each other--we were together? OLIVER. Was it all wrong? ANABEL. No, not all. But it was terrible. It was terrible, Oliver. You don't realise. You don't realise how awful passion can be, when it never resolves, when it never becomes anything else. It is hate, really. OLIVER. What did you want the passion to resolve into?