MR. BARLOW.  Do, darling, and we’ll all join in the chorus.—­Will you join in the chorus, Miss Wrath?

ANABEL.  I will.  It is a good song.

MR. BARLOW.  Yes, isn’t it!

WINIFRED. All dance for the chorus, as well as singing.

(They sing; some pirouette a little for the chorus.)

MR. BARLOW.  Ah, splendid!  Splendid!  There is nothing like gaiety.

WINIFRED. I do love to dance about.  I know:  let us do a little ballet—­four of us—­oh, do!

GERALD.  What ballet, Winifred?

WINIFRED. Any.  Eva can play for us.  She plays well.

MR. BARLOW.  You won’t disturb your mother?  Don’t disturb Eva if she is busy with your mother. (Exit WINIFRED.) If only I can see Winifred happy, my heart is at rest:  if only I can hope for her to be happy in her life.

GERALD.  Oh, Winnie’s all right, father—­especially now she has Miss
Wrath to initiate her into the mysteries of life and labour.

ANABEL.  Why are you ironical?

MR. BARLOW.  Oh, Miss Wrath, believe me, we all feel that—­it is the greatest possible pleasure to me that you have come.

GERALD.  I wasn’t ironical, I assure you.

MR. BARLOW.  No, indeed—­no, indeed!  We have every belief in you.

ANABEL.  But why should you have?

MR. BARLOW.  Ah, my dear child, allow us the credit of our own discernment.  And don’t take offence at my familiarity.  I am afraid I am spoilt since I am an invalid.

(Re-enter WINIFRED, with EVA.)

MR. BARLOW.  Come, Eva, you will excuse us for upsetting your evening. 
Will you be so good as to play something for us to dance to?

EVA.  Yes, sir.  What shall I play?

WINIFRED. Mozart—­I’ll find you the piece.  Mozart’s the saddest musician in the world—­but he’s the best to dance to.

MR. BARLOW.  Why, how is it you are such a connoisseur in sadness, darling?

GERALD.  She isn’t.  She’s a flagrant amateur.

(EVA plays; they dance a little ballet.)

MR. BARLOW.  Charming—­charming, Miss Wrath:—­will you allow me to say Anabel, we shall all feel so much more at home?  Yes—­thank you —­er—­you enter into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, dear.  The others are accustomed to play together.  But it is not so easy to come in on occasion as you do.

GERALD.  Oh, Anabel’s a genius!—­I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath—­ familiarity is catching.

MR. BARLOW.  Gerald, my boy, don’t forget that you are virtually host here.

EVA.  Did you want any more music, sir?

GERALD.  No, don’t stay, Eva.  We mustn’t tire father. (Exit EVA.)

MR. BARLOW.  I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to excuse in us, in the way of manners.  We have never been a formal household.  But you have lived in the world of artists:  you will understand, I hope.