Miss S. Quite so.  But I must find Anne.

     [She recedes. ]

Poulder. [Suavely] Well, I wish you every success; and I hope you’ll spank her.  This modern education—­there’s no fruitiness in it.

L. Anne. [From under the table] Poulder, are you virtuous?

Poulder. [Jumping] Good Ged!

L. Anne.  D’you mind my asking?  I promised James I would.

Poulder.  Miss Anne, come out!

     [The four footmen appear in the hall, Henry carrying the wine
     cooler.]

James.  Form fours-by your right-quick march!

     [They enter, marching down right of table.]

Right incline—­Mark time!  Left turn!  ’Alt!  ’Enry, set the bomb! 
Stand easy!

     [Henry places the wine cooler on the table and covers it with a
     blue embroidered Chinese mat, which has occupied the centre of
     the tablecloth.]

Poulder.  Ah!  You will ’ave your game!  Thomas, take the door there!  James, the ‘all!  Admit titles an’ bishops.  No literary or Labour people.  Charles and ’Enry, ’op it and ’ang about!

     [Charles and Henry go out, the other too move to their
     stations.]

     [Poulder, stands by the table looking at the covered bomb.  The
     hoarse and distant sounds of the Marseillaise float in again
     from Park Lane.]

[Moved by some deep feeling] And this house an ’orspital in the war!  I ask you—­what was the good of all our sacrifices for the country?  No town ‘ouse for four seasons—­rustygettin’ in the shires, not a soul but two boys under me.  Lord William at the front, Lady William at the back.  And all for this! [He points sadly at the cooler] It comes of meddlin’ on the Continent.  I had my prognostications at the time. [To James] You remember my sayin’ to you just before you joined up:  “Mark my words—­we shall see eight per cent. for our money before this is over!”

James. [Sepulchrally] I see the eight per cent., but not the money.

Poulder.  Hark at that!

     [The sounds of the Marseillaise grow louder.  He shakes his
     head.]

I’d read the Riot Act.  They’ll be lootin’ this house next!

James.  We’ll put up a fight over your body:  “Bartholomew Poulder, faithful unto death!” Have you insured your life?

Poulder.  Against a revolution?

James.  Act o’ God!  Why not?

Poulder.  It’s not an act o’ God.

James.  It is; and I sympathise with it.

Poulder.  You—­what?

James.  I do—­only—­hands off the gov’nor.

Poulder.  Oh!  Really!  Well, that’s something.  I’m glad to see you stand behind him, at all events.