HARRY:  (reading the thermometer) The roses have seventy-three I have forty-five.

ANTHONY:  Yes, the roses need seventy-three.

HARRY:  Anthony, this is an outrage!

ANTHONY:  I think it is myself; when you consider what we paid for the heating plant—­but as long as it is defective—­Why, Miss Claire would never have done what she has if she hadn’t looked out for her plants in just such ways as this.  Have you forgotten that Breath of Life is about to flower?

HARRY:  And where’s my breakfast about to flower?—­that’s what I want to know.

ANTHONY:  Why, Miss Claire got up at five o’clock to order the heat turned off from the house.

HARRY:  I see you admire her vigilance.

ANTHONY:  Oh, I do. (fervently) I do.  Harm was near, and that woke her up.

HARRY:  And what about the harm to—­(tapping his chest) Do roses get pneumonia?

ANTHONY:  Oh, yes—­yes, indeed they do.  Why, Mr Archer, look at Miss Claire herself.  Hasn’t she given her heat to the roses?

HARRY:  (pulling the rug around him, preparing for the blizzard) She has the fire within.

ANTHONY:  (delighted) Now isn’t that true!  How well you said it. (with a glare for this appreciation, HARRY opens the door.  It blows away from him) Please do close the door!

HARRY:  (furiously) You think it is the aim of my life to hold it open?

ANTHONY:  (getting hold of it) Growing things need an even temperature, (while saying this he gets the man out into the snow)

(ANTHONY consults the thermometer, not as pleased this time as he was before.  He then looks minutely at two of the plants—­one is a rose, the other a flower without a name because it has not long enough been a flower.  Peers into the hearts of them.  Then from a drawer under a shelf, takes two paper bags, puts one over each of these flowers, closing them down at the bottom.  Again the door blows wildly in, also HATTIE, a maid with a basket.)

ANTHONY:  What do you mean—­blowing in here like this?  Mrs Archer has ordered—­

HATTIE:  Mr Archer has ordered breakfast served here, (she uncovers the basket and takes out an electric toaster)

ANTHONY:  Breakfast—­here? Eat—­here?  Where plants grow?

HATTIE:  The plants won’t poison him, will they? (at a loss to know what to do with things, she puts the toaster under the strange vine at the back, whose leaves lift up against the glass which has frost leaves on the outer side)

ANTHONY:  (snatching it away) You—­you think you can cook eggs under the Edge Vine?

HATTIE:  I guess Mr Archer’s eggs are as important as a vine.  I guess my work’s as important as yours.

ANTHONY:  There’s a million people like you—­and like Mr Archer.  In all the world there is only one Edge Vine.