[On Mrs. GWYN’s lips there comes a little mocking smile.]

Colonel. [Pulling his wife’s sleeve.] Nell!

Mrs. Hope.  No, Tom, I’m going to talk to Molly; she’s old enough to know better.

Mrs. Gwyn.  Yes?

Mrs. Hope.  Yes, and you’ll get yourself into a mess; I don’t approve of it, and when I see a thing I don’t approve of——­

Colonel. [Walking about, and pulling his moustache.] Nell, I won’t have it, I simply won’t have it.

Mrs. Hope.  What rate of interest are these Preference shares to pay?

Mrs. Gwyn. [Still smiling.] Ten per cent.

Mrs. Hope.  What did I tell you, Tom?  And are they safe?

Mrs. Gwyn.  You’d better ask Maurice.

Mrs. Hope.  There, you see, you call him Maurice!  Now supposing your uncle went in for some of them——­

Colonel. [Taking off his hat-in a high, hot voice] I’m not going in for anything of the sort.

Mrs. Hope.  Don’t swing your hat by the brim!  Go and look if you can see him coming!

     [The colonel goes.]

[In a lower voice.] Your uncle’s getting very bald.  I ’ve only shoulder of lamb for lunch, and a salad.  It’s lucky it’s too hot to eat.

     [Miss beech has appeared while she is speaking.]

Here she is, Peachey!

Miss beech.  I see her. [She kisses Mrs. Gwyn, and looks at her intently.]

Mrs. Gwyn. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Well, Peachey!  What d ’you make of me?

Colonel. [Returning from his search.] There’s a white hat crossing the second stile.  Is that your friend, Molly?

     [Mrs. Gwyn nods.]

Mrs. Hope.  Oh! before I forget, Peachey—­Letty and Ernest can move their things back again.  I’m going to put Mr. Lever in your room. [Catching sight o f the paint pot on the ground.] There’s that disgusting paint pot!  Take it up at once, Tom, and put it in the tree.

     [The colonel picks up the pot and bears it to the hollow tree
     followed by Mrs. Hope; he enters.]

Mrs. Hope. [Speaking into the tree.] Not there!

Colonel. [From within.] Well, where then?

Mrs. Hope.  Why—­up—­oh! gracious!

[Mrs. Gwyn, standing alone, is smiling.  Lever approaches from the towing-path.  He is a man like a fencer’s wrist, supple and steely.  A man whose age is difficult to tell, with a quick, good-looking face, and a line between his brows; his darkish hair is flecked with grey.  He gives the feeling that he has always had to spurt to keep pace with his own life.]

Mrs. Hope. [Also entering the hollow tree.] No-oh!