L. Anne.  Are all the middle classes virtuous?  Is Poulder?

James. [Dubiously] Well.  Ask him!

L. Anne.  Yes, I will.  Look!

     [From an empty bin on the ground level she picks up a lighted
     taper,—­burnt almost to the end.]

James. [Contemplating it] Careless!

L. Ate.  Oh!  And look! [She paints to a rounded metal object lying in the bin, close to where the taper was] It’s a bomb!

She is about to pick it up when James takes her by the waist and puts her aside.

James. [Sternly] You stand back, there!  I don’t like the look o’ that!

L. Anne. [With intense interest] Is it really a bomb?  What fun!

James.  Go and fetch Poulder while I keep an eye on it.

L. Anne. [On tiptoe of excitement] If only I can make him jump! 
Oh, James! we needn’t put the light out, need we?

James.  No.  Clear off and get him, and don’t you come back.

L. Anne.  Oh! but I must!  I found it!

James.  Cut along.

L. Anne.  Shall we bring a bucket?

James.  Yes. [Anne flies off.]

[Gazing at the object] Near go!  Thought I’d seen enough o’them to last my time.  That little gas blighter!  He looked a rum ’un, too—­one o’ these ’ere Bolshies.

[In the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are too much for him.  He sits on the ground, leaning against one of the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large, lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee.  Taking out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between his dips.  There enter, behind him, as from a communication trench, Poulder, in swallow-tails, with little Anne behind him.]

L. Anne. [Peering round him—­ecstatic] Hurrah!  Not gone off yet! 
It can’t—­can it—­while James is sitting on it?

Poulder. [Very broad and stout, with square shoulders,—­a large ruddy face, and a small mouth] No noise, Miss.—­James.

James.  Hallo!

Poulder.  What’s all this?

James.  Bomb!

Poulder.  Miss Anne, off you go, and don’t you——­

L. Anne.  Come back again!  I know! [She flies.]

James. [Extending his hand with the pipe in it] See!

Poulder. [Severely] You’ve been at it again!  Look here, you’re not in the trenches now.  Get up!  What are your breeches goin’ to be like?  You might break a bottle any moment!

James. [Rising with a jerk to a sort of “Attention!”] Look here, you starched antiquity, you and I and that bomb are here in the sight of the stars.  If you don’t look out I’ll stamp on it and blow us all to glory!  Drop your civilian swank!