two. Oh,
but it's pence and shillings. I can't do pence and shillings!
(_Throws down the pencil; it falls off the table._) Horrid old
things! they're always coming wrong. (_She rises lazily, and stoops
to pick up the pencil, then looks round her, stretching her arms and
yawning._) I say, what fun to make a libation to Demeter! I will!
Let's see. I wish I had mother's Greek dress. I must have one of
father's rags. This'll do. (_Drapes herself in a piece of
embroidery, runs up stage, jumps on "throne," and poses before the
mirror._) It's awfully jolly dressing up. But I have no wine. Oh, I
know--I'll take some of father's painting water--though it's rather
black-and-whity. (_Takes up the glass, and approaches the statue._)
Hail, Demeter! I have no wine for you, but here's some water.
(_Makes libation._) I suppose I should pray for something now. Oh, I
do wish you'd stop mother persecuting me in the holidays like this!
But you can't, you dear old thing. Father says the old gods are
dead. I wish they'd come alive again. (_Crosses to table._)

(_Enter Denham. Undine drops embroidery, kicks it under the table,
and sits._)

Denham.

Well, imp, what's up now? (_He comes to the fireplace, and takes a
pipe from the rack._) Rags again! I shall have to lock them up, I
see. (_Takes up the embroidery, and throws it over a chair._) Get to
your work at once! Sit up straight. (_He crosses L, seats
himself in the armchair, lights his pipe, and takes up the book,
Undine resumes her crouched position at the table._)

Undine.

(_pouting_) It's very hard to have to do sums in the holidays.

Denham.

(_crosses to table behind Undine_) You are behind your class, you
know. (_Looking over her._) Well, seven times three?

Undine.

Let's see--twenty-one?

Denham.

And how many shillings in that?

Undine.

I suppose two shillings and one penny.

Denham.

Nonsense! Don't suppose anything so un-English. How many pence in a
shilling?

Undine.

Twelve--I suppose.

Denham.

Well, twelve from twenty-one leaves--

(_Undine counts on her fingers_)

How many?

Undine.

About eight, I think.

Denham.

Try again, stupid!

Undine.

But, father, I think there _ought_ to be ten pence in a shilling.

Denham.

Why _ought_ there, you monkey?

Undine.

Oh, because then, don't you see, you could count on your fingers all
right, but now there are too many pennies for your fingers, and so
you never can tell how many ar