Comtesse.  I feel it rather a shame to detain you here on such a lovely day, Mr. Shand, entertaining an old woman.

John.  I don’t pretend to think I’m entertaining you, Comtesse.

Comtesse.  But you are, you know.

John.  I would be pleased to be told how?

[She shrugs her impertinent shoulders, and presently there is another heavy sigh from John.]

Comtesse.  Again!  Why do not you go out on the river?

John.  Yes, I can do that. [He rises.]

Comtesse.  And take Sybil with you. [He sits again.] No?

John.  I have been on the river with her twenty times.

Comtesse.  Then take her for a long walk through the Fairloe woods.

John.  We were there twice last week.

Comtesse.  There is a romantically damp little arbour at the end of what the villagers call the Lovers’ Lane.

John.  One can’t go there every day.  I see nothing to laugh at.

Comtesse.  Did I laugh?  I must have been translating the situation into French.

[Perhaps the music of the lawn-mower is not to JOHN’s mood, for he betakes himself to another room.  Mr. Venables pauses in his labours to greet a lady who has appeared on the lawn, and who is Maggie.  She is as neat as if she were one of the army of typists [who are quite the nicest kind of women], and carries a little bag.  She comes in through the window, and puts her hands over the COMTESSE’s eyes.]

Comtesse.  They are a strong pair of hands, at any rate.

Maggie.  And not very white, and biggish for my size.  Now guess.

[The Comtesse guesses, and takes both the hands in hers as if she valued them.  She pulls off MAGGIE’s hat as if to prevent her flying away.]

Comtesse.  Dear abominable one, not to let me know you were coming.

Maggie.  It is just a surprise visit, Comtesse.  I walked up from the station. [For a moment Maggie seems to have borrowed SYBIL’S impediment.] How is—­everybody?

Comtesse.  He is quite well.  But, my child, he seems to me to be a most unhappy man.

[This sad news does not seem to make a most unhappy woman of the child.  The Comtesse is puzzled, as she knows nothing of the situation save what she has discovered for herself.]

Why should that please you, O heartless one?

Maggie.  I won’t tell you.

Comtesse.  I could take you and shake you, Maggie.  Here have I put my house at your disposal for so many days for some sly Scotch purpose, and you will not tell me what it is.

Maggie.  No.

Comtesse.  Very well, then, but I have what you call a nasty one for you. [The Comtesse lures Mr. Venables into the room by holding up what might be a foaming glass of lemon squash.] Alas, Charles, it is but a flower vase.  I want you to tell Mrs. Shand what you think of her husband’s speech.