Scantlebury.  A screen, ah!

Tench.  Certainly, Mr. Wilder. [He looks at Underwood.] That is—­ perhaps the Manager—­perhaps Mr. Underwood——­

Scantlebury.  These fireplaces of yours, Underwood——­

Underwood. [Roused from studying some papers.] A screen?  Rather!  I’m sorry. [He goes to the door with a little smile.] We’re not accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now.

     [He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly,
     ironically.]

Wilder. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men.  H’m!

     [Underwood goes out.]

Scantlebury.  Poor devils!

Wilder.  It’s their own fault, Scantlebury.

Edgar. [Holding out his paper.] There’s great distress among them, according to the Trenartha News.

Wilder.  Oh, that rag!  Give it to Wanklin.  Suit his Radical views.  They call us monsters, I suppose.  The editor of that rubbish ought to be shot.

Edgar. [Reading.] “If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing amongst their work-people during this strike——­”

Wilder.  Well, we have come.

Edgar. [Continuing.] “We cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton hearts would remain untouched.”

     [Wanklin takes the paper from him.]

Wilder.  Ruffian!  I remember that fellow when he had n’t a penny to his name; little snivel of a chap that’s made his way by black-guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself.

     [Anthony says something that is not heard.]

Wilder.  What does your father say?

Edgar.  He says “The kettle and the pot.”

Wilder.  H’m!

     [He sits down next to Scantlebury.]

Scantlebury. [Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don’t get that screen.

     [Underwood and Enid enter with a screen, which they place before
     the fire.  Enid is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is
     twenty-eight years old.]

Enid.  Put it closer, Frank.  Will that do, Mr. Wilder?  It’s the highest we’ve got.

Wilder.  Thanks, capitally.

Scantlebury. [Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah!  Merci,
Madame!

Enid.  Is there anything else you want, Father? [Anthony shakes his head.] Edgar—­anything?

Edgar.  You might give me a “J” nib, old girl.

Enid.  There are some down there by Mr. Scantlebury.

Scantlebury. [Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses
“J’s.”  What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.]
What does your husband use, Mrs. Underwood?