L. Anne. [Poignantly] Oh, Daddy!

Lord W. [Desperately] In fact—­er—­you know how—­er—­responsible we feel.

L. Anne.  Hooray! [Applause.]

     [There float in through the windows the hoarse and distant
     sounds of the Marseillaise, as sung by London voices.]

Lord W. There is a feeling in the air—­that I for one should say deliberately was—­er—­a feeling in the air—­er—­a feeling in the air——­

L. Anne. [Agonised] Oh, Daddy!  Stop!

     [Jane enters, and closes the door behind him.  James.  Look
     here!  ’Ave I got to report you to Miss Stokes?]

L. Anne.  No-o-o!

James.  Well, I’m goin’ to.

L. Anne.  Oh, James, be a friend to me!  I’ve seen nothing yet.

James.  No; but you’ve eaten a good bit, on the stairs.  What price that Peach Melba?

L. Anne.  I can’t go to bed till I’ve digested it can I?  There’s such a lovely crowd in the street!

James.  Lovely?  Ho!

L. Anne. [Wheedling] James, you couldn’t tell Miss Stokes!  It isn’t in you, is it?

James. [Grinning] That’s right.

L. Anne.  So-I’ll just get under here. [She gets under the table]
Do I show?

James. [Stooping] Not ’arf!

     [Poulder enters from the hall.]

Poulder.  What are you doin’ there?

James. [Between him and the table—­raising himself] Thinkin’.

     [Poulder purses his mouth to repress his feedings.]

Poulder.  My orders are to fetch the bomb up here for Lady William to inspect.  Take care no more writers stray in.

James.  How shall I know ’em?

Poulder.  Well—­either very bald or very hairy.

James.  Right-o! [He goes.]

     [Poulder, with his back to the table, busies himself with the
     set of his collar.]

Poulder. [Addressing an imaginary audience—­in a low but important voice] The—­ah—­situation is seerious.  It is up to us of the—­ah—­ leisured classes——­

     [The face of little Anne is poked out close to his legs, and
     tilts upwards in wonder towards the bow of his waistcoat.]

to—­ah—­keep the people down.  The olla polloi are clamourin’——­

     [Miss Stokes appears from the hall, between the pillars.]

Miss S. Poulder!

Poulder. [Making a volte face towards the table] Miss?

Miss S. Where is Anne?

Poulder. [Vexed at the disturbance of his speech] Excuse me, Miss—­ to keep track of Miss Anne is fortunately no part of my dooties.

     [Miss S. She really is naughty.]

Poulder.  She is.  If she was mine, I’d spank her.