WINIFRED. They’re such a bore.

ANABEL.  What does Gerald manage?

WINIFRED. Everything.  You know he’s revolutionised the collieries and the whole Company.  He’s made a whole new thing of it, so MODERN.  Father says he almost wishes he’d let it die out—­let the pits be closed.  But I suppose things MUST be modernised, don’t you think?  Though it’s very unpeaceful, you know, really.

ANABEL.  Decidedly unpeaceful, I should say.

WINIFRED. The colliers work awfully hard.  The pits are quite wonderful now.  Father says it’s against nature—­all this electricity and so on.  Gerald adores electricity.  Isn’t it curious?

ANABEL.  Very.  How are you getting on?

WINIFRED. I don’t know.  It’s so hard to make things BALANCE as if they were alive.  Where IS the balance in a thing that’s alive?

ANABEL.  The poise?  Yes, Winifred—­to me, all the secret of life is in that—­just the—­the inexpressible poise of a living thing, that makes it so different from a dead thing.  To me it’s the soul, you know—­all living things have it—­flowers, trees as well.  It makes life always marvellous.

WINIFRED. Ah, yes!—­ah, yes!  If only I could put it in my model.

ANABEL.  I think you will.  You are a sculptor, Winifred.—­Isn’t there someone there?

WINIFRED (running to the door).  Oh, Oliver!

OLIVER.  Hello, Winnie!  Can I come in?  This is your sanctum:  you can keep us out if you like.

WINIFRED. Oh, no.  Do you know Miss Wrath, Oliver?  She’s a famous sculptress.

OLIVER.  Is she?  We have met.—­Is Winifred going to make a sculptress, do you think?

ANABEL.  I do.

OLIVER.  Good!  I like your studio, Winnie.  Awfully nice up here over the out-buildings.  Are you happy in it?

WINIFRED. Yes, I’m perfectly happy—­only I shall NEVER be able to make real models, Oliver—­it’s so difficult.

OLIVER.  Fine room for a party—­Give us a studio party one day, Win, and we’ll dance.

WINIFRED (flying to him).  Yes, Oliver, do let us dance.  What shall we dance to?

OLIVER.  Dance?—­Dance Vigni-vignons—­we all know that.  Ready?

WINIFRED. Yes.

(They begin to sing, dancing meanwhile, in a free little ballet- manner, a wine-dance, dancing separate and then together.)

          De terre en vigne,
          La voila la jolie vigne,
          Vigni-vignons—­vignons le vin,
          La voila la jolie vigne au vin,
          La voila la jolie vigne.

OLIVER.  Join in—­join in, all.

(ANABEL joins in; the three dance and move in rhythm.)

WINIFRED. I love it—­I love it!  Do Ma capote a trois boutons—­you know it, don’t you, Anabel?  Ready—­now—–­