of too much fire down here just now.

[He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly,
ironically.]

WILDER. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm!

[UNDERWOOD goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils!

WILDER. It's their own fault, Scantlebury.

EDGAR. [Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them,
according to the Trenartha News.

WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views.
They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought
to be shot.

EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the
Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would
condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing
amongst their work-people during this strike----"

WILDER. Well, we have come.

EDGAR. [Continuing.] "We cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton
hearts would remain untouched."

[WANKLIN takes the paper from him.]

WILDER. Ruffian! I remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to
his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding
everybody who takes a different view to himself.

[ANTHONY says something that is not heard.]

WILDER. What does your father say?

EDGAR. He says "The kettle and the pot."

WILDER. H'm!

[He sits down next to SCANTLEBURY.]

SCANTLEBURY. [Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don't get
that screen.

[UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before
the fire. ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is
twenty-eight years old.]

ENID. Put it closer, Frank. Will that do, Mr. Wilder? It's the
highest we've got.

WILDER. Thanks, capitally.

SCANTLEBURY. [Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah! Merci,
Madame!

ENID. Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his
head.] Edgar--anything?

EDGAR. You might give me a "J" nib, old girl.

ENID. There are some down there by Mr. Scantlebury.

SCANTLEBURY. [Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses
"J's." What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.]
What does your husband use, Mrs. Underwood?

UNDERWOOD. A quill!

SCANTLEBURY. The homely product of the goose. [He holds out
quills.]

UNDERWOOD. [Drily.] Thanks, if you can spare me one. [He takes a
quill.] What about lunch, Enid?

ENID. [Stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] We're