ANTHONY:  Please, you won’t try again to disturb Miss Claire, will you?

DICK:  Her daughter is here, Anthony.  She hasn’t seen her daughter for a year.

ANTHONY:  Well, if she got along without a mother for a year—­(goes back to his work)

DICK:  (smiling after ANTHONY) Plants are queer.  Perhaps it’s safer to do it with pencil (regards TOM)—­or with pure thought.  Things that grow in the earth—­

TOM:  (nodding) I suppose because we grew in the earth.

DICK:  I’m always shocked to find myself in agreement with Harry, but I too am worried about Claire—­and this, (looking at the plants)

TOM:  It’s her best chance.

DICK:  Don’t you hate to go away to India—­for ever—­leaving Claire’s future uncertain?

TOM:  You’re cruel now.  And you knew that you were being cruel.

DICK:  Yes, I like the lines of your face when you suffer.

TOM:  The lines of yours when you’re causing suffering—­I don’t like them.

DICK:  Perhaps that’s your limitation.

TOM:  I grant you it may be. (They are silent) I had an odd feeling that you and I sat here once before, long ago, and that we were plants.  And you were a beautiful plant, and I—­I was a very ugly plant.  I confess it surprised me—­finding myself so ugly a plant.

(A young girl is seen outside.  HARRY gets the door open for her and brings ELIZABETH in.)

HARRY:  There’s heat here.  And two of your mother’s friends.  Mr Demming—­Richard Demming—­the artist—­and I think you and Mr Edgeworthy are old friends.

(ELIZABETH comes forward.  She is the creditable young American—­well built, poised, ‘cultivated’, so sound an expression of the usual as to be able to meet the world with assurance—­assurance which training has made rather graceful.  She is about seventeen—­and mature.  You feel solid things behind her.)

TOM:  I knew you when you were a baby.  You used to kick a great deal then.

ELIZABETH:  (laughing, with ease) And scream, I haven’t a doubt.  But I’ve stopped that.  One does, doesn’t one?  And it was you who gave me the idol.

TOM:  Proselytizing, I’m afraid.

ELIZABETH:  I beg—?  Oh—­yes (laughing cordially) I see. (she doesn’t) I dressed the idol up in my doll’s clothes.  They fitted perfectly—­the idol was just the size of my doll Ailine.  But mother didn’t like the idol that way, and tore the clothes getting them off. (to HARRY, after looking around) Is mother here?

HARRY:  (crossly) Yes, she’s here.  Of course she’s here.  And she must know you’re here, (after looking in the inner room he goes to the trap-door and makes a great noise)

ELIZABETH:  Oh—­please.  Really—­it doesn’t make the least difference.

HARRY:  Well, all I can say is, your manners are better than your mother’s.