Mrs. Hope. [Reappearing with a garden syringe.] I simply won’t have Dick keep his fishing things in the tree; there’s a whole potful of disgusting worms.  I can’t touch them.  You must go and take ’em out, Tom.

     [In his turn the Colonel enters the hollow of the tree.]

Mrs. Hope. [Personally.] What on earth’s the pleasure of it?  I can’t see!  He never catches anything worth eating.

     [The Colonel reappears with a paint pot full of worms; he holds
     them out abstractedly.]

Mrs. Hope. [Jumping.] Don’t put them near me!

Miss beech. [From behind the tree.] Don’t hurt the poor creatures.

Colonel. [Turning.] Hallo, Peachey?  What are you doing round there?

     [He puts the worms down on the seat.]

Mrs. Hope.  Tom, take the worms off that seat at once!

Colonel. [Somewhat flurried.] Good gad!  I don’t know what to do with the beastly worms!

Mrs. Hope.  It’s not my business to look after Dick’s worms.  Don’t put them on the ground.  I won’t have them anywhere where they can crawl about. [She flicks some greenflies off her roses.]

Colonel. [Looking into the pot as though the worms could tell him where to put them.] Dash!

Miss beech.  Give them to me.

Mrs. Hope. [Relieved.] Yes, give them to Peachey.

     [There comes from round the tree Miss beech, old-fashioned,
     barrel-shaped, balloony in the skirts.  She takes the paint pot,
     and sits beside it on the rustic seat.]

Miss beech.  Poor creatures!

Mrs. Hope.  Well, it’s beyond me how you can make pets of worms-wriggling, crawling, horrible things!

     [Rose, who is young and comely, in a pale print frock, comes
     from the house and places letters before her on a silver
     salver.]

     [Taking the letters.]

What about Miss joy’s frock, Rose?

Rose.  Please, ’m, I can’t get on with the back without Miss Joy.

Mrs. Hope.  Well, then you must just find her.  I don’t know where she is.

Rose. [In a slow, sidelong manner.] If you please, Mum, I think
Miss Joy’s up in the——­

     [She stops, seeing Miss beech signing to her with both hands.]

Mrs. Hope. [Sharply.] What is it, Peachey?

Miss beech. [Selecting a finger.] Pricked meself!

Mrs. Hope.  Let’s look!

     [She bends to look, but Miss beech places the finger in her
     mouth.]

Rose. [Glancing askance at the Colonel.] If you please, Mum, it’s below the waist; I think I can manage with the dummy.