The study of John builder in the provincial town of Breconridge.  A panelled room wherein nothing is ever studied, except perhaps Builder’s face in the mirror over the fireplace.  It is, however, comfortable, and has large leather chairs and a writing table in the centre, on which is a typewriter, and many papers.  At the back is a large window with French outside shutters, overlooking the street, for the house is an old one, built in an age when the homes of doctors, lawyers and so forth were part of a provincial town, and not yet suburban.  There are two or three fine old prints on the walls, Right and Left; and a fine, old fireplace, Left, with a fender on which one can sit.  A door, Left back, leads into the dining-room, and a door, Right forward, into the hall.

John builder is sitting in his after-breakfast chair before the fire with The Times in his hands.  He has breakfasted well, and is in that condition of first-pipe serenity in which the affairs of the. nation seem almost bearable.  He is a tallish, square, personable man of forty-seven, with a well-coloured, jowly, fullish face, marked under the eyes, which have very small pupils and a good deal of light in them.  His bearing has force and importance, as of a man accustomed to rising and ownerships, sure in his opinions, and not lacking in geniality when things go his way.  Essentially a Midlander.  His wife, a woman of forty-one, of ivory tint, with a thin, trim figure and a face so strangely composed as to be almost like a mask (essentially from Jersey) is putting a nib into a pen-holder, and filling an inkpot at the writing-table.

As the curtain rises Camille enters with a rather broken-down cardboard box containing flowers.  She is a young woman with a good figure, a pale face, the warm brown eyes and complete poise of a Frenchwoman.  She takes the box to Mrs builder.

Mrs builder.  The blue vase, please, Camille. 
     Camille fetches a vase.  Mrs builder puts the flowers into the vase. 
     Camille gathers up the debris; and with a glance at builder goes
     out.

Builder.  Glorious October!  I ought to have a damned good day’s shooting with Chantrey tomorrow.

Mrs builder. [Arranging the flowers] Aren’t you going to the office this morning?

Builder.  Well, no, I was going to take a couple of days off.  If you feel at the top of your form, take a rest—­then you go on feeling at the top. [He looks at her, as if calculating] What do you say to looking up Athene?

Mrs builder. [Palpably astonished] Athene?  But you said you’d done with her?

Builder. [Smiling] Six weeks ago; but, dash it, one can’t have done with one’s own daughter.  That’s the weakness of an Englishman; he can’t keep up his resentments.  In a town like this it doesn’t do to have her living by herself.  One of these days it’ll get out we’ve had a row.  That wouldn’t do me any good.