Jack (bowing). A minor poet only, not yet being of age.
Jane. Do not make fun of the minor poets, Jack. Leave that to the newspapers. They foster them.
Hargrave (apologetic). My son had good intentions.
Jack. Heaven is filled with good intentions, father. (To Jane.) Chesterton says that poets are a trouble to their families. But then Chesterton is always wrong. If the families of real poets are anything like mine, the trouble rests with them.
Jane. Hurry, Jack, the tree may be gone. (Crosses L. and seats herself in the armchair.)
Jack. My interview will prove a very short one. (Pulls out watch.) Before long, father, I shall expect you to have arranged everything.
Hargrave (in a conciliatory manner). You said that her sister was an idiot, did you not?
Jack. I did, father.
Hargrave (writing on cuff). It may prove of importance. (Shuts door on him. A whistling sound is heard as Jack leisurely descends the stairs. Hargrave returns to Jane. Her taking the larger chair upsets him very much. There is a moment's lapse in which they look at each other.)
Jane. How very still it is here, Peter. I feel almost as if I were in the country—in the country that we both knew so well before our hearts had learned to beat.