NEST (with the candour that is one of his most engaging qualities).
Well, you know, it was rather silly of uncle to fling away his life by
trying to get into the boat first; and as this document may be printed
in the English papers, it struck me, an English peer, you know--

LADY MARY (every inch an English peer's daughter). Ernest, that is very
thoughtful of you.

ERNEST (continuing, well pleased).--'By night the cries of wild cats and
the hissing of snakes terrify us extremely'--(this does not satisfy
him so well, and he makes a correction)--'terrify the ladies extremely.
Against these we have no weapons except one cutlass and a hatchet. A
bucket washed ashore is at present our only comfortable seat'--

LADY MARY (with some spirit). And Ernest is sitting on it.

ERNEST. H'sh! Oh, do be quiet.--'To add to our horrors, night falls
suddenly in these parts, and it is then that savage animals begin to
prowl and roar.'

LADY MARY. Have you said that vampire bats suck the blood from our toes
as we sleep?

ERNEST. No, that's all. I end up, 'Rescue us or we perish. Rich reward.
Signed Ernest Woolley, in command of our little party.' This is written
on a leaf taken out of a book of poems that Crichton found in his
pocket. Fancy Crichton being a reader of poetry. Now I shall put it into
the bottle and fling it into the sea.

(He pushes the precious document into a soda-water bottle, and rams the
cork home. At the same moment, and without effort, he gives birth to one
of his most characteristic epigrams.)

The tide is going out, we mustn't miss the post.

(They are so unhappy that they fail to grasp it, and a little petulantly
he calls for CRICHTON, ever his stand-by in the hour of epigram.
CRICHTON breaks through the undergrowth quickly, thinking the ladies are
in danger.)

CRICHTON. Anything wrong, sir?

ERNEST (with fine confidence). The tide, Crichton, is a postman who
calls at our island twice a day for letters.

CRICHTON (after a pause). Thank you, sir.

(He returns to his labours, however, without giving the smile which is
the epigrammatist's right, and ERNEST is a little disappointed in him.)

ERNEST. Poor Crichton! I sometimes think he is losing his sense of
humour. Come along, Agatha.

(He helps his favourite up the rocks, and they disappear gingerly from
view.)

CATHERINE. How horribly still it is.

LADY MARY (remembering some recent sounds). It is best when it is still.

CATHERINE (drawing close