Mr. Icky: Yes, very quiet....
(Suddenly a loudly dressed girl appears; she is very worldly. It is Ulsa Icky. On her is one of those shapeless faces peculiar to early Italian painting.)
Ulsa: (In a coarse, worldly voice) Feyther! Here I am! Ulsa did what?
Mr. Icky: (Tremulously) Ulsa, little Ulsa. (They embrace each other’s torsos.)
Mr. Icky: (Hopefully) You’ve come back to help with the ploughing.
Ulsa: (Sullenly) No, feyther; ploughing’s such a beyther. I’d reyther not.
(Though her accent is broad, the content of her speech is sweet and clean.)
Divine: (Conciliatingly) See here, Ulsa. Let’s come to an understanding.
(He advances toward her with the graceful, even stride that made him captain of the striding team at Cambridge.)
Ulsa: You still say it would be Jack?