Christine. [Taking the roses] Oh!  Thanks!  How sweet of mother!

Freda. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. 
My lady thought white would suit her better.

Christine.  They suit you in that black dress.

     [Freda lowers the roses quickly.]

What do you think of Joan’s engagement?

Freda.  It’s very nice for her.

Christine.  I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals?

Freda.  Every day.  Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing.

Christine.  I do hate learning a part.  Thanks awfully for unpacking. 
Any news?

Freda. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, won’t marry Rose Taylor, after all.

Christine.  What a shame!  But I say that’s serious.  I thought there was—­she was—­I mean——­

Freda.  He’s taken up with another girl, they say.

Christine.  Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D’you know if Mr. Bill’s come?

Freda. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty.

     Ronald Keith comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in
     evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and
     the air of a horseman.

Keith.  Hallo!  Roses in December.  I say, Freda, your father missed a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham’s spinney.  Where’s that litter of little foxes?

Freda. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith.

Keith.  You bet he does.  Emigration?  Or thin air?  What?

Christine.  Studdenham’d never shoot a fox, Ronny.  He’s been here since the flood.

Keith.  There’s more ways of killing a cat—­eh, Freda?

Christine. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young
Dunning won’t marry that girl, Ronny.

Keith.  Phew!  Wouldn’t be in his shoes, then!  Sir William’ll never keep a servant who’s made a scandal in the village, old girl.  Bill come?

As they disappear from the hall, John latter in a clergyman’s evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, and a drawing-room.  He passes Freda with a formal little nod.  Harold, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three steps at a time.

Harold.  Hallo, Freda!  Patience on the monument.  Let’s have a sniff!  For Miss Lanfarne?  Bill come down yet?

Freda.  No, Mr. Harold.

Harold crosses the hall, whistling, and follows latter into the drawing-room.  There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a voice crying:  “Shut up, Dot!” And Joan comes down screwing her head back.  She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes.

Joan.  Am I all right behind, Freda?  That beast, Dot!