Mont. Well, then!
Ste. Shooting moor. Sir Charles' shooting moor.
Vin. Well, what difference do a few acres more or less make to a shooting moor? Surely he'd rather sell you some of that.
Ste. Think so?
Mont. I'm certain of it.
Ste. (sitting on settee). You're wrong, then. He's holding on for a rise. He's held on to this till the value went up. Land here in the centre's' worth more, than land outside. This is ripe. The other isn't. That's why he'll sell this.
Vin. (r. c.). Well, if that's really so——
Ste. (grimly). It's really so.
Vin. (with-an air of finality). All I can say is I shall most certainly have to revise my opinion of Sir Charles. (Crosses down L.)
(Pilling is visible through the window working a mowing machine in the garden; he passes and repasses at intervals.)