Freda.  Quite, Miss Joan.

     DOT’s face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. 
     She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a
     rebel.

Dot.  You little being!

Joan. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door]
Oh!  Dot!  You’re pinching!

     As they disappear into the drawing-room, Mabel Lanfarne, a tall
     girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down.  And
     at sight of her FREDA’s whole figure becomes set and meaningfull.

Freda.  For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady.

Mabel. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet! [Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda?

Freda.  Very well, thank you.

Mabel.  And your father?  Hope he’s going to let me come out with the guns again.

Freda. [Stolidly] He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.

Mabel.  Ye-es!  I haven’t forgotten his face-last time.

Freda.  You stood with Mr. Bill.  He’s better to stand with than Mr.
Harold, or Captain Keith?

Mabel.  He didn’t touch a feather, that day.

Freda.  People don’t when they’re anxious to do their best.

A gong sounds.  And Mabel Lanfarne, giving Freda a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room.  Left alone without the roses, Freda still lingers.  At the slamming of a door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the stairs.  Bill runs down, and comes on her suddenly.  He is a tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn look of veiled choler.

Bill.  Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what’s the matter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away from her] Aren’t you glad to see me?

Freda.  I’ve something to say to you, Mr. Bill.  After dinner.

Bill.  Mister——?

She passes him, and rushes away upstairs.  And bill, who stands frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the drawing-room door is opened, and sir William and miss Lanfarne come forth, followed by Keith, Dot, Harold, Christine, latter, and Joan, all leaning across each other, and talking.  By herself, behind them, comes lady Cheshire, a refined-looking woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at once gentle, and ironic.  They move across the hall towards the dining-room.

Sir William.  Ah!  Bill.

Mabel.  How do you do?

Keith.  How are you, old chap?

Dot. [gloomily] Do you know your part?

Harold.  Hallo, old man!