(Enter Florence Whitworth, in golfing tweeds with bag, and without hat, hair tumbled by the wind. She is a largemade girl of eighteen, supremely healthy and athletic.)
FLORENCE. May I hide in here?
LEO. What's there to hide from?
FLORENCE. Eleanor Smith is tackling Elsie in the hall to play hockey for the High School Old Girls this afternoon. When she finds Elsie won't, she'll want to try me, so I'll keep out of the way, please.
EDMUND. And why won't Elsie?
FLORENCE. We never do when the Rovers are playing at home. I wouldn't miss seeing the match this afternoon for the best game of hockey I ever had. (Slinging the golf-bag in a corner.) Topping round on the links, uncle. You ought to have come.
EDMUND. I'm a sedentary animal, Flo.
FLORENCE. Yes. And you're putting on weight. It's six years since you were here, and I'll bet you've gone up a stone a year.
EDMUND. In my profession a portly figure is an asset. If you have a lean and hungry look, clients think it's because you sit up late running up bills of costs. If you look comfortable, they imagine you're too busy dining to think of the six and eightpences.
FLORENCE. Yes. I never met a slacker yet who wasn't full of excellent excuses. Leo calls his poetry. You call yours business. Wait till you'll retire. You'll find it out then if you haven't a decent hobby.