Joy.  Dick Merton—­in my letters you know.

     [She looks at Dick as though she wished him gone.]

Mrs. Gwyn.  How do you do?

Dick. [Shaking hands.] How d ’you do?  I think if you’ll excuse me
—­I’ll go in.

     [He goes uncertainly.]

Mrs. Gwyn.  What’s the matter with him?

Joy.  Oh, nothing! [Hugging her.] Mother!  You do look such a duck. 
Why did you come by the towing-path, was n’t it cooking?

Mrs. Gwyn. [Avoiding her eyes.] Mr. Lever wanted to go into Mr.
Henty’s.

     [Her manner is rather artificially composed.]

Joy. [Dully.] Oh!  Is he-is he really coming here, Mother?

Mrs. Gwyn. [Whose voice has hardened just a little.] If Aunt Nell’s got a room for him—­of course—­why not?

Joy. [Digging her chin into her mother’s shoulder.]

     [Why couldn’t he choose some day when we’d gone?  I wanted you
     all to myself.]

Mrs. Gwyn.  You are a quaint child—­when I was your age——­

Joy. [Suddenly looking up.] Oh!  Mother, you must have been a chook!

Mrs. Gwyn.  Well, I was about twice as old as you, I know that.

Joy.  Had you any—­any other offers before you were married, Mother?

Mrs. Gwyn. [Smilingly.] Heaps!

Joy. [Reflectively.] Oh!

Mrs. Gwyn.  Why?  Have you been having any?

Joy. [Glancing at Mrs. Gwyn, and then down.] N-o, of course not!

Mrs. Gwyn.  Where are they all?  Where’s Peachey?

Joy.  Fussing about somewhere; don’t let’s hurry!  Oh! you duckie—­ duckie!  Aren’t there any letters from Dad?

Mrs. Gwyn. [In a harder voice.] Yes, one or two.

Joy. [Hesitating.] Can’t I see?

Mrs. Gwyn.  I didn’t bring them. [Changing the subject obviously.]
Help me to tidy—­I’m so hot I don’t know what to do.

     [She takes out a powder-puff bag, with a tiny looking-glass.]

Joy.  How lovely it’ll be to-morrow-going home!

Mrs. Gwyn. [With an uneasy look.] London’s dreadfully stuffy, Joy. 
You ’ll only get knocked up again.

Joy. [With consternation.] Oh! but Mother, I must come.

Mrs. Gwyn. (Forcing a smile.) Oh, well, if you must, you must!

     [Joy makes a dash at her.]

Don’t rumple me again.  Here’s Uncle Tom.

Joy. [Quickly.] Mother, we’re going to dance tonight; promise to dance with me—­there are three more girls than men, at least—­and don’t dance too much with—­with—­you know—­because I’m—­[dropping her voice and very still]—­jealous.