[In the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are too much for him.  He sits on the ground, leaning against one of the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large, lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee.  Taking out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between his dips.  There enter, behind him, as from a communication trench, Poulder, in swallow-tails, with little Anne behind him.]

L. Anne. [Peering round him—­ecstatic] Hurrah!  Not gone off yet! 
It can’t—­can it—­while James is sitting on it?

Poulder. [Very broad and stout, with square shoulders,—­a large ruddy face, and a small mouth] No noise, Miss.—­James.

James.  Hallo!

Poulder.  What’s all this?

James.  Bomb!

Poulder.  Miss Anne, off you go, and don’t you——­

L. Anne.  Come back again!  I know! [She flies.]

James. [Extending his hand with the pipe in it] See!

Poulder. [Severely] You’ve been at it again!  Look here, you’re not in the trenches now.  Get up!  What are your breeches goin’ to be like?  You might break a bottle any moment!

James. [Rising with a jerk to a sort of “Attention!”] Look here, you starched antiquity, you and I and that bomb are here in the sight of the stars.  If you don’t look out I’ll stamp on it and blow us all to glory!  Drop your civilian swank!

Poulder. [Seeing red] Ho!  Because you had the privilege of fightin’ for your country you still think you can put it on, do you?  Take up your wine!  ’Pon my word, you fellers have got no nerve left!

     [James makes a sudden swoop, lifts the bomb and poises it in
     both hands.  Poulder recoils against a bin and gazes, at the
     object.]

James.  Put up your hands!

Poulder.  I defy you to make me ridiculous.

James. [Fiercely] Up with ’em!

     [Poulder’s hands go up in an uncontrollable spasm, which he
     subdues almost instantly, pulling them down again.]

James.  Very good. [He lowers the bomb.]

Poulder. [Surprised] I never lifted ’em.

James.  You’d have made a first-class Boche, Poulder.  Take the bomb yourself; you’re in charge of this section.

Poulder. [Pouting] It’s no part of my duty to carry menial objects; if you’re afraid of it I’ll send ’Enry.

James.  Afraid!  You ‘Op o’ me thumb!

     [From the “communication trench” appears little Anne, followed
     by a thin, sharp, sallow-faced man of thirty-five or so, and
     another footman, carrying a wine-cooler.]

L. Anne.  I’ve brought the bucket, and the Press.