L. Anne.  Oh!  Are you going?  Where?

James. [Assembling the last bottles] Out o’ Blighty!

L. Anne.  Is a little blighter a little Englishman?

James. [Embarrassed] Well-’e can be.

L. Anne [Mining] James—­we’re quite safe down here, aren’t we, in a revolution?  Only, we wouldn’t have fun.  Which would you rather—­be safe, or have fun?

James. [Grimly] Well, I had my bit o’ fun in the war.

L. Anne.  I like fun that happens when you’re not looking.

James.  Do you?  You’d ha’ been just suited.

L. Anne.  James, is there a future life?  Miss Stokes says so.

James.  It’s a belief, in the middle classes.

L. Anne.  What are the middle classes?

James.  Anything from two ’undred a year to supertax.

L. Anne.  Mother says they’re terrible.  Is Miss Stokes middle class?

James.  Yes.

L. Anne.  Then I expect they are terrible.  She’s awfully virtuous, though, isn’t she?

James.  ‘Tisn’t so much the bein’ virtuous, as the lookin’ it, that’s awful.

L. Anne.  Are all the middle classes virtuous?  Is Poulder?

James. [Dubiously] Well.  Ask him!

L. Anne.  Yes, I will.  Look!

     [From an empty bin on the ground level she picks up a lighted
     taper,—­burnt almost to the end.]

James. [Contemplating it] Careless!

L. Ate.  Oh!  And look! [She paints to a rounded metal object lying in the bin, close to where the taper was] It’s a bomb!

She is about to pick it up when James takes her by the waist and puts her aside.

James. [Sternly] You stand back, there!  I don’t like the look o’ that!

L. Anne. [With intense interest] Is it really a bomb?  What fun!

James.  Go and fetch Poulder while I keep an eye on it.

L. Anne. [On tiptoe of excitement] If only I can make him jump!  Oh, James! we needn’t put the light out, need we?

James.  No.  Clear off and get him, and don’t you come back.

L. Anne.  Oh! but I must!  I found it!

James.  Cut along.

L. Anne.  Shall we bring a bucket?

James.  Yes. [Anne flies off.]

[Gazing at the object] Near go!  Thought I’d seen enough o’them to last my time.  That little gas blighter!  He looked a rum ’un, too—­one o’ these ’ere Bolshies.