[Sitting by the card-table.] No, boys; no 'Vonia. The truth is, it isn't as nice as you'd think it. I suppose the Profession had its drawbacks—mother used to say so—but [raising her arms] one could fly. Yes, in Brydon Crescent one was a dirty little London sparrow, perhaps; but here, in this grand square——! Oh, it's the story of the caged bird, over again.
Avonia.
A love-bird, though.
Rose.
Poor Arthur? yes, he's a dear. [Rising.] But the Gowers—the old Gowers! the Gowers! the Gowers I [She paces the room, beating her hands together. In her excitement, she ceases to whisper, and gradually becomes loud and voluble. The others, following her leady chatter noisily—excepting Tom, who sits thoughtfully, looking before him.]
Rose.
The ancient Gowers! the venerable Gowers!
Avonia.
You mean, the grandfather——-?