[The smiling face of little Anne becomes visible again close to
     his legs.]

Miss S. Not a nice word.

Poulder.  No; but a pleasant haction.  Miss Anne’s the limit.  In fact, Lord and Lady William are much too kind ’earted all round.  Take these sweated workers; that class o’ people are quite ’opeless.  Treatin’ them as your equals, shakin ’ands with ’em, givin ’em tea—­ it only puffs ’em out.  Leave it to the Church, I say.

Miss S. The Church is too busy, Poulder.

Poulder.  Ah!  That “Purity an’ Future o’ the Race Campaign.”  I’ll tell you what I thinks the danger o’ that, Miss.  So much purity that there won’t be a future race. [Expanding] Purity of ’eart’s an excellent thing, no doubt, but there’s a want of nature about it.  Same with this Anti-Sweating.  Unless you’re anxious to come down, you must not put the lower classes up.

Miss S. I don’t agree with you at all, Poulder.

Poulder.  Ah!  You want it both ways, Miss.  I should imagine you’re a Liberal.

Miss S. [Horrified] Oh, no!  I certainly am not.

Poulder.  Well, I judged from your takin’ cocoa.  Funny thing that, about cocoa-how it still runs through the Liberal Party!  It’s virtuous, I suppose.  Wine, beer, tea, coffee-all of ’em vices.  But cocoa you might drink a gallon a day and annoy no one but yourself!  There’s a lot o’ deep things in life, Miss!

Miss S. Quite so.  But I must find Anne.

     [She recedes. ]

Poulder. [Suavely] Well, I wish you every success; and I hope you’ll spank her.  This modern education—­there’s no fruitiness in it.

L. Anne. [From under the table] Poulder, are you virtuous?

Poulder. [Jumping] Good Ged!

L. Anne.  D’you mind my asking?  I promised James I would.

Poulder.  Miss Anne, come out!

     [The four footmen appear in the hall, Henry carrying the wine
     cooler.]

James.  Form fours-by your right-quick march!

     [They enter, marching down right of table.]

Right incline—­Mark time!  Left turn!  ’Alt!  ’Enry, set the bomb! 
Stand easy!

     [Henry places the wine cooler on the table and covers it with a
     blue embroidered Chinese mat, which has occupied the centre of
     the tablecloth.]

Poulder.  Ah!  You will ’ave your game!  Thomas, take the door there!  James, the ‘all!  Admit titles an’ bishops.  No literary or Labour people.  Charles and ’Enry, ’op it and ’ang about!

     [Charles and Henry go out, the other too move to their
     stations.]

     [Poulder, stands by the table looking at the covered bomb.  The
     hoarse and distant sounds of the Marseillaise float in again
     from Park Lane.]