Dot.  Shut up!

Sir William’s voice is heard from the corridor calling “Dorothy!” As lady Cheshire, passing her handkerchief over her face, turns round, he enters.  He is in full hunting dress:  well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops.

Sir William.  Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially] Rehearsin’?  What! [He goes up to Freda holding out his gloved right hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you?  It’s a bit stiff!

     Freda buttons the glove:  Lady Cheshire and the girls watching
     in hypnotic silence.

Sir William.  Thank you!  “Balmy as May”; scent ought to be first-rate. [To lady Cheshire] Good-bye, my dear!  Sampson’s Gorse —­best day of the whole year. [He pats Joan on the shoulder] Wish you were cumin’ out, Joan.

     He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the
     chink of his spurs die away, Freda turns and rushes into the
     workroom.

Christine.  Mother!  What——?

     But lady Cheshire waves the question aside, passes her daughter,
     and goes out into the corridor.  The sound of a motor car is
     heard.

Joan. [Running to the window] They’ve started—!  Chris!  What is it?  Dot?

Dot.  Bill, and her!

Joan.  But what?

Dot. [Gloomily] Heaven knows!  Go away, you’re not fit for this.

Joan. [Aghast] I am fit.

Dot.  I think not.

Joan.  Chris?

Christine. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us.

Joan.  It can’t be very awful.  Freda’s so good.

Dot.  Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten!

Christine.  It’s horrible, not knowing anything!  I wish Runny hadn’t gone.

Joan.  Shall I fetch John?

Dot.  John!

Christine.  Perhaps Harold knows.

Joan.  He went out with Studdenham.

Dot.  It’s always like this, women kept in blinkers.  Rose-leaves and humbug!  That awful old man!

Joan.  Dot!

Christine.  Don’t talk of father like that!

Dot.  Well, he is!  And Bill will be just like him at fifty!  Heaven help Freda, whatever she’s done!  I’d sooner be a private in a German regiment than a woman.

Joan.  Dot, you’re awful.

Dot.  You-mouse-hearted-linnet!

Christine.  Don’t talk that nonsense about women!

Dot.  You’re married and out of it; and Ronny’s not one of these terrific John Bulls. [To Joan who has opened the door] Looking for John?  No good, my dear; lath and plaster.