f death--you've played a pretty deathly game, it seems to
me--both when I knew you and afterwards, you've had your finger pretty
deep in the death-pie.

ANABEL. That's why I want a change of--of---

GERALD. Of heart?--Better take mother's tip, and try the poker.

ANABEL. I will.

GERALD. Ha--corraggio!

ANABEL. Yes--corraggio!

GERALD. Corraggiaccio!

ANABEL. Corraggione!

GERALD. Cock-a-doodle-doo!

(Enter OLIVER and FREER.)

Oh, come in. Don't be afraid; it's a charade. (ANABEL rises.) No, don't
go, Anabel. Corraggio! Take a seat, Mr. Freer.

JOB ARTHUR. Sounds like a sneezing game, doesn't it?

GERALD. It is. Do you know the famous rhyme:

Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes?

JOB ARTHUR. No, I can't say I do.

GERALD. My mother does. Will you have anything to drink? Will you help
yourself?

JOB ARTHUR. Well--no--I don't think I'll have anything, thanks.

GERALD. A cherry brandy?--Yes?--Anabel, what's yours?

ANABEL. Did I see Kummel?

GERALD. You did. (They all take drinks.) What's the latest, Mr. Freer?

JOB ARTHUR. The latest? Well, I don't know, I'm sure---

GERALD. Oh, yes. Trot it out. We're quite private.

JOB ARTHUR. Well--I don't know. There's several things.

GERALD. The more the merrier.

JOB ARTHUR. I'm not so sure. The men are in a very funny temper, Mr.
Barlow--very funny.

GERALD. Coincidence--so am I. Not surprising, is it?

JOB ARTHUR. The men, perhaps not.

GERALD. What else, Job Arthur?

JOB ARTHUR. You know the men have decided to stand by the office men?

GERALD. Yes.

JOB ARTHUR. They've agreed to come out next Monday.

GERALD. Have they?

JOB ARTHUR. Yes; there was no stopping them. They decided for it like
one man.

GERALD. How was that?

JOB ARTHUR. That's what surprises me. They're a jolly sight more certain
over this than they've ever been over their own interests.

GERALD. All their love for the office clerks coming out in a rush?

JOB ARTHUR. Well, I don't know about love; but that's how it is.

GERALD. What is it, if it isn't love?

JOB ARTHUR. I can't say. They're in a funny temper. It's hard to make
out.

GERALD. A funny temper, are they? Then I suppose we ought to laugh.

JOB ARTHUR. No, I don't think it's a laughing matter. They're coming out
on Monday for certain.

GERALD. Yes--so are the daffodils.

JOB ARTHUR. Beg pardon?

GERALD. Daffodils.

JOB ARTHUR. No, I don't