Camille goes to the writing-table and looks.  That blue thing.

Camille. [Taking it up] Non, Monsieur, this is from the gas.

Builder.  Oh!  Ah!
     [He moves up to the table and turns over papers.  Camille stands
     motionless close by with her eyes fixed on him.]
Here it is!
     [He looks up, sees her looking at him, drops his own gaze, and hands
     her the letter.  Their hands touch.  Putting his hands in his
     pockets]
What made you come to England?

Camille. [Demure] It is better pay, Monsieur, and [With a smile] the
English are so amiable.

Builder.  Deuce they are!  They haven’t got that reputation.

Camille.  Oh!  I admire Englishmen.  They are so strong and kind.

Builder. [Bluffly flattered] H’m!  We’ve no manners.

Camille.  The Frenchman is more polite, but not in the ’eart.

Builder.  Yes.  I suppose we’re pretty sound at heart.

Camille.  And the Englishman have his life in the family—­the Frenchman have his life outside.

Builder. [With discomfort] H’m!

Camille. [With a look] Too mooch in the family—­like a rabbit in a ’utch.

Builder.  Oh!  So that’s your view of us! [His eyes rest on her, attracted but resentful].

Camille.  Pardon, Monsieur, my tongue run away with me.

Builder. [Half conscious of being led on] Are you from Paris?

Camille. [Clasping her hands] Yes.  What a town for pleasure—­Paris!

Builder.  I suppose so.  Loose place, Paris.

Camille.  Loose?  What is that, Monsieur?

Builder.  The opposite of strict.

Camille.  Strict!  Oh! certainly we like life, we other French.  It is not like England.  I take this to Madame, Monsieur. [She turns as if to go] Excuse me.

Builder.  I thought you Frenchwomen all married young.

Camille.  I ’ave been married; my ’usband did die—­en Afrique.

Builder.  You wear no ring.

Camille. [Smiling] I prefare to be mademoiselle, Monsieur.

Builder. [Dubiously] Well, it’s all the same to us. [He takes a letter up from the table] You might take this to Mrs Builder too. [Again their fingers touch, and there is a suspicion of encounter between their eyes.]

Camille goes out.

Builder. [Turning to his chair] Don’t know about that woman—­she’s a tantalizer.

He compresses his lips, and is settling back into his chair, when the door from the hall is opened and his daughter Maud comes in; a pretty girl, rather pale, with fine eyes.  Though her face has a determined cast her manner at this moment is by no means decisive.  She has a letter in her hand, and advances rather as if she were stalking her father, who, after a “Hallo, Maud!” has begun to read his paper.

Maud. [Getting as far as the table] Father.