MRS. BRAMSON (looking at her book): Oh … (Picking a paper out of it.) What's this? (Reading ponderously) A sonnet. "The flame of passion is not red but white, not quick but slow—"
OLIVIA (going to her and snatching it from her with a cry):
Don't!
MRS. BRAMSON: Writing poetry! That's a hobby and a half, I must say!
"Flame of passion …" well!
OLIVIA (crossing to the fireplace): It's only a silly poem I amused myself with at college. It's not meant for anybody but me.
MRS. BRAMSON: You're a dark horse, you are.
MRS. TERENCE enters from the kitchen. She is the cook, middle-aged,
Cockney, and fearless. She carries a bunch of roses.
MRS. TERENCE (grimly): Would you be wanting anything?
MRS. BRAMSON: Yes. Clear away.
MRS. TERENCE: That's Dora's job. Where's Dora?
OLIVIA: She's gone into the clearing for some firewood.