Enid. [Moving to the double-doors, and listening.] Do you know that man Roberts, Frost?

Frost. Yes, M’m; that’s to say, not to speak to.  But to look at ’im you can tell what he’s like.

Enid. [Stopping.] Yes?

Frost. He’s not one of these ’ere ordinary ’armless Socialists.  ’E’s violent; got a fire inside ’im.  What I call “personal.”  A man may ’ave what opinions ’e likes, so long as ’e ’s not personal; when ’e ’s that ’e ’s not safe.

Enid.  I think that’s what my father feels about Roberts.

Frost. No doubt, M’m, Mr. Anthony has a feeling against him.

     [Enid glances at him sharply, but finding him in perfect
     earnest, stands biting her lips, and looking at the
     double-doors.]

It ’s, a regular right down struggle between the two.  I’ve no patience with this Roberts, from what I ’ear he’s just an ordinary workin’ man like the rest of ’em.  If he did invent a thing he’s no worse off than ‘undreds of others.  My brother invented a new kind o’ dumb-waiter—­nobody gave him anything for it, an’ there it is, bein’ used all over the place.

     [Enid moves closer to the double-doors.]

There’s a kind o’ man that never forgives the world, because ’e wasn’t born a gentleman.  What I say is—­no man that’s a gentleman looks down on another because ’e ’appens to be a class or two above ’im, no more than if ’e ’appens to be a class or two below.

Enid. [With slight impatience.] Yes, I know, Frost, of course.  Will you please go in and ask if they’ll have some tea; say I sent you.

Frost. Yes, M’m.

     [He opens the doors gently and goes in.  There is a momentary
     sound of earnest, gather angry talk.]

Wilder.  I don’t agree with you.

Wanklin.  We’ve had this over a dozen times.

Edgar. [Impatiently.] Well, what’s the proposition?

Scantlebury.  Yes, what does your father say?  Tea?  Not for me, not for me!

Wanklin.  What I understand the Chairman to say is this——­

     [Frost re-enters closing the door behind him.]

Enid. [Moving from the door.] Won’t they have any tea, Frost?

     [She goes to the little table, and remains motionless, looking
     at the baby’s frock.]

     [A parlourmaid enters from the hall.]

PARLOURMAID.  A Miss Thomas, M’m

Enid. [Raising her head.] Thomas?  What Miss Thomas—­d’ you mean a——?

PARLOURMAID.  Yes, M’m.

Enid. [Blankly.] Oh!  Where is she?

PARLOURMAID.  In the porch.

Enid.  I don’t want——­[She hesitates.]

Frost. Shall I dispose of her, M’m?

Enid.  I ’ll come out.  No, show her in here, Ellen.