GERALD. Oh, Anabel's a genius!—I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath—familiarity is catching.
MR. BARLOW. Gerald, my boy, don't forget that you are virtually host here.
EVA. Did you want any more music, sir?
GERALD. No, don't stay, Eva. We mustn't tire father. (Exit EVA.)
MR. BARLOW. I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to excuse in us, in the way of manners. We have never been a formal household. But you have lived in the world of artists: you will understand, I hope.
ANABEL. Oh, surely—-
MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know. We have been a turbulent family, and we have had our share of sorrow, even more, perhaps, than of joys. And sorrow makes one indifferent to the conventionalities of life.
GERALD. Excuse me, father: do you mind if I go and write a letter I have on my conscience?
MR. BARLOW. No, my boy. (Exit GERALD.) We have had our share of sorrow and of conflict, Miss Wrath, as you may have gathered.
ANABEL. Yes—a little.