OLIVER. You smile to yourself. (Exit.)
(Curtain.)
ACT III
An old park. Early evening. In the background a low Georgian
hall, which has been turned into offices for the Company, shows
windows already lighted. GERALD and ANABEL walk along the path.
ANABEL. How beautiful this old park is!
GERALD. Yes, it is beautiful—seems so far away from everywhere, if one doesn't remember that the hall is turned into offices.—No one has lived here since I was a little boy. I remember going to a Christmas party at the Walsalls'.
ANABEL. Has it been shut up so long?
GERALD. The Walsalls didn't like it—too near the ugliness. They were county, you know—we never were: father never gave mother a chance, there. And besides, the place is damp, cellars full of water.
ANABEL. Even now?
GERALD. No, not now—they've been drained. But the place would be too damp for a dwelling-house. It's all right as offices. They burn enormous fires. The rooms are quite charming. This is what happens to the stately homes of England—they buzz with inky clerks, or their equivalent. Stateliness is on its last legs.