the play in their hands; seeing that
something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his
mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom.
LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window.

JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter?

DOT. Shut up!

SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling
"Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, passing her handkerchief over her
face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress:
well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops.

SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially]
Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved right
hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff!

FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE and the girls watching
in hypnotic silence.

SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to be
first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse
--best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish
you were cumin' out, Joan.

He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the
chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the
workroom.

CHRISTINE. Mother! What----?

But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter,
and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is
heard.

JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started--! Chris! What is
it? Dot?

DOT. Bill, and her!

JOAN. But what?

DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this.

JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit.

DOT. I think not.

JOAN. Chris?

CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us.

JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good.

DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten!

CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Runny hadn't
gone.

JOAN. Shall I fetch John?

DOT. John!

CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows.

JOAN. He went out with Studdenham.

DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and
humbug! That awful old man!

JOAN. Dot!

CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that!

DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven
help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a German
regiment than a woman.

JOAN. Dot, you're awful.

DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet!

CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nons