[Noah prepares to write, depositing the baking-tin on the table.
Georgiana.
[Turning.] Eh?
Hannah.
Hush! Listen to me!
[Speaks to Georgiana excitedly.
Sir Tristram.
[To Noah.] Have you got that?
Noah.
[Writing laboriously with his legs curled round the chair and his head on the table.] Ay. I’m spelling it my own way.