(Enter BUTLER.)

WILLIAM.  You rang, madam?

MRS. BARLOW.  Clear up those bits.—­Where are you going to see that white-faced fellow?  Here?

GERALD.  I think so.

MRS. BARLOW.  You will STILL have them coming to the house, will you? 
You will still let them trample in our private rooms, will you?  Bah! 
I ought to leave you to your own devices. (Exit.)

GERALD.  When you’ve done that, William, ask Mr. Freer to come down here.

WILLIAM.  Yes, sir. (A pause.  Exit WILLIAM.)

GERALD.  So-o-o.  You’ve had another glimpse of the family life.

ANABEL.  Yes.  Rather—­disturbing.

GERALD.  Not at all, when you’re used to it.  Mother isn’t as mad as she pretends to be.

ANABEL.  I don’t think she’s mad at all.  I think she has most desperate courage.

GERALD.  “Courage” is good.  That’s a new term for it.

ANABEL.  Yes, courage.  When a man says “courage” he means the courage to die.  A woman means the courage to live.  That’s what women hate men most for, that they haven’t the courage to live.

GERALD.  Mother takes her courage in both hands rather late.

ANABEL.  We’re a little late ourselves.

GERALD.  We are, rather.  By the way, you seem to have had plenty of the courage of death—­you’ve played a pretty deathly game, it seems to me—­both when I knew you and afterwards, you’ve had your finger pretty deep in the death-pie.

ANABEL.  That’s why I want a change of—­of—–­

GERALD.  Of heart?—­Better take mother’s tip, and try the poker.

ANABEL.  I will.

GERALD.  Ha—­corraggio!

ANABEL.  Yes—­corraggio!

GERALD.  Corraggiaccio!

ANABEL.  Corraggione!

GERALD.  Cock-a-doodle-doo!

(Enter OLIVER and FREER.)

Oh, come in.  Don’t be afraid; it’s a charade. (ANABEL rises.) No, don’t go, Anabel.  Corraggio!  Take a seat, Mr. Freer.

JOB ARTHUR.  Sounds like a sneezing game, doesn’t it?

GERALD.  It is.  Do you know the famous rhyme: 

          Speak roughly to your little boy,
          And beat him when he sneezes?

JOB ARTHUR.  No, I can’t say I do.

GERALD.  My mother does.  Will you have anything to drink?  Will you help yourself?

JOB ARTHUR.  Well—­no—­I don’t think I’ll have anything, thanks.

GERALD.  A cherry brandy?—­Yes?—­Anabel, what’s yours?

ANABEL.  Did I see Kummel?

GERALD.  You did. (They all take drinks.) What’s the latest, Mr.
Freer?

JOB ARTHUR.  The latest?  Well, I don’t know, I’m sure—–­

GERALD.  Oh, yes.  Trot it out.  We’re quite private.

JOB ARTHUR.  Well—­I don’t know.  There’s several things.