OLIVER.  The steps tire you, Mr. Barlow.

MR. BARLOW.  A little—­a little—­thank you.—­Well, Miss Wrath, are you quite comfortable here?

ANABEL.  Very comfortable, thanks.

GERALD.  It was clever of you, father, to turn this place into a studio.

MR. BARLOW.  Yes, Gerald.  You make the worldly schemes, and I the homely.  Yes, it’s a delightful place.  I shall come here often if the two young ladies will allow me.—­By the way, Miss Wrath, I don’t know if you have been introduced to my son Gerald.  I beg your pardon.  Miss Wrath, Gerald—­my son, Miss Wrath. (They bow.) Well, we are quite a gathering, quite a pleasant little gathering.  We never expected anything so delightful a month ago, did we, Winifred, darling?

WINIFRED. No, daddy, it’s much nicer than expectations.

MR. BARLOW.  So it is, dear—­to have such exceptional companionship and such a pleasant retreat.  We are very happy to have Miss Wrath with us—­very happy.

GERALD.  A studio’s awfully nice, you know; it is such a retreat.  A newspaper has no effect in it—­falls quite flat, no matter what the headlines are.

MR. BARLOW.  Quite true, Gerald, dear.  It is a sanctum the world cannot invade—­unlike all other sanctuaries, I am afraid.

GERALD.  By the way, Oliver—­to go back to profanities—­the colliers really are coming out in support of the poor, ill-used clerks.

MR. BARLOW.  No, no, Gerald—­no, no!  Don’t be such an alarmist.  Let us leave these subjects before the ladies.  No, no:  the clerks will have their increase quite peacefully.

GERALD.  Yes, dear father—­but they can’t have it peacefully now.  We’ve been threatened already by the colliers—­we’ve already received an ultimatum.

MR. BARLOW.  Nonsense, my boy—­nonsense!  Don’t let us split words.  You won’t go against the clerks in such a small matter.  Always avoid trouble over small matters.  Don’t make bad feeling—­don’t make bad blood.

MRS. BARLOW.  The blood is already rotten in the neighbourhood.  What it needs is letting out.  We need a few veins opening, or we shall have mortification setting in.  The blood is black.

MR. BARLOW.  We won’t accept your figure of speech literally, dear.  No, Gerald, don’t go to war over trifles.

GERALD.  It’s just over trifles that one must make war, father.  One can yield gracefully over big matters.  But to be bullied over trifles is a sign of criminal weakness.

MR. BARLOW.  Ah, not so, not so, my boy.  When you are as old as I am, you will know the comparative insignificance of these trifles.

GERALD.  The older I get, father, the more such trifles stick in my throat.

MR. BARLOW.  Ah, it is an increasingly irritable disposition in you, my child.  Nothing costs so bitterly, in the end, as a stubborn pride.