Joy. [Hesitating.] Can’t I see?

Mrs. Gwyn.  I didn’t bring them. [Changing the subject obviously.]
Help me to tidy—­I’m so hot I don’t know what to do.

     [She takes out a powder-puff bag, with a tiny looking-glass.]

Joy.  How lovely it’ll be to-morrow-going home!

Mrs. Gwyn. [With an uneasy look.] London’s dreadfully stuffy, Joy. 
You ’ll only get knocked up again.

Joy. [With consternation.] Oh! but Mother, I must come.

Mrs. Gwyn. (Forcing a smile.) Oh, well, if you must, you must!

     [Joy makes a dash at her.]

Don’t rumple me again.  Here’s Uncle Tom.

Joy. [Quickly.] Mother, we’re going to dance tonight; promise to dance with me—­there are three more girls than men, at least—­and don’t dance too much with—­with—­you know—­because I’m—­[dropping her voice and very still]—­jealous.

Mrs. Gwyn. [Forcing a laugh.] You are funny!

Joy. [Very quickly.] I haven’t made any engagements because of you.

     [The Colonel approaches through the wall.]

Mrs. Gwyn.  Well, Uncle Tom?

Colonel. [Genially.] Why, Molly! [He kisses her.] What made you come by the towing-path?

Joy.  Because it’s so much cooler, of course.

Colonel.  Hallo!  What’s the matter with you?  Phew! you’ve got your hair up!  Go and tell your aunt your mother’s on the lawn.  Cut along!

     [Joy goes, blowing a kiss.]

Cracked about you, Molly!  Simply cracked!  We shall miss her when you take her off to-morrow. [He places a chair for her.] Sit down, sit down, you must be tired in this heat.  I ’ve sent Bob for your things with the wheelbarrow; what have you got?—­only a bag, I suppose.

Mrs. Gwyn. [Sitting, with a smile.] That’s all, Uncle Tom, except—­ my trunk and hat-box.

Colonel.  Phew!  And what’s-his-name brought a bag, I suppose?

Mrs. Gwyn.  They’re all together.  I hope it’s not too much, Uncle Tom.

Colonel. [Dubiously.] Oh!  Bob’ll manage!  I suppose you see a good deal of—­of—­Lever.  That’s his brother in the Guards, isn’t it?

Mrs. Gwyn.  Yes.

Colonel.  Now what does this chap do?

Mrs. Gwyn.  What should he do, Uncle Tom?  He’s a Director.

Colonel.  Guinea-pig! [Dubiously.] Your bringing him down was a good idea.

     [Mrs. Gwyn, looking at him sidelong, bites her lips.]

I should like to have a look at him.  But, I say, you know, Molly—­ mines, mines!  There are a lot of these chaps about, whose business is to cook their own dinners.  Your aunt thinks——­