John [carried away].  Maggie, you really are a very generous woman.

Sybil [convinced at last].  She is indeed.

John.  And you’re queer too.  How many women in the circumstances would sit down to write a letter?

Maggie.  It’s a letter to you, John.

John.  To me?

Maggie.  I’ll give it to you when it’s finished, but I ask you not to open it till your visit to the Comtesse ends.

John.  What is it about?

Maggie.  It’s practical.

Sybil [rather faintly].  Practical? [She has heard the word so frequently to-day that it is beginning to have a Scotch sound.  She feels she ought to like Maggie, but that she would like her better if they were farther apart.  She indicates that the doctors are troubled about her heart, and murmuring her adieux she goes.  John, who is accompanying her, pauses at the door.]

John [with a queer sort of admiration for his wife].  Maggie, I wish I was fond of you.

Maggie [heartily].  I wish you were, John.

[He goes, and she resumes her letter.  The stocking is lying at hand, and she pushes it to the floor.  She is done for a time with knitting.]

ACT IV

[Man’s most pleasant invention is the lawn-mower.  All the birds know this, and that is why, when it is at rest, there is always at least one of them sitting on the handle with his head cocked, wondering how the delicious whirring sound is made.  When they find out, they will change their note.  As it is, you must sometimes have thought that you heard the mower very early in the morning, and perhaps you peeped in neglige from your lattice window to see who was up so early.  It was really the birds trying to get the note.

On this broiling morning, however, we are at noon, and whoever looks will see that the whirring is done by Mr. Venables.  He is in a linen suit with the coat discarded (the bird is sitting on it), and he comes and goes across the Comtesse’s lawns, pleasantly mopping his face.  We see him through a crooked bowed window generously open, roses intruding into it as if to prevent its ever being closed at night; there are other roses in such armfuls on the tables that one could not easily say where the room ends and the garden begins.

In the Comtesse’s pretty comic drawing-room (for she likes the comic touch when she is in England) sits John Shand with his hostess, on chairs at a great distance from each other.  No linen garments for John, nor flannels, nor even knickerbockers; he envies the English way of dressing for trees and lawns, but is too Scotch to be able to imitate it; he wears tweeds, just as he would do in his native country where they would be in kilts.  Like many another Scot, the first time he ever saw a kilt was on a Sassenach; indeed kilts were perhaps invented, like golf, to draw the English north.  John is doing nothing, which again is not a Scotch accomplishment, and he looks rather miserable and dour.  The Comtesse is already at her Patience cards, and occasionally she smiles on him as if not displeased with his long silence.  At last she speaks:]