sarah. Listen . . . the first bird.
mr. tatton. Oh, dear no, they begin to sing long before this.
carnaby. What is it now . . . a lark?
mr. tatton. I don't know.
ann. [Quietly to sarah.] That's a thrush.
sarah. [Capping her.] A thrush.
carnaby. Charming!
mr. tatton. [To lord john.] I don't see why you couldn't have told me how it was that she screamed.
carnaby. Our dear Tatton! [Sotto voce to his son.] Hold your tongue, George.
mr. tatton. I did bar toads and you said I didn't, and anyway I had a sort of right to know.