(A footstep is heard.)
PURDIE (for the first time losing patience with his wife). Is that her coming back again? It's too bad.
(But the intruder is MRS. DEARTH, and he greets her with relief.)
Ah, it is you, Mrs. Dearth.
ALICE. Yes, it is; but thank you for telling me, Mr. Purdie. I don't intrude, do I?
JOANNA (descending to the lower plane, on which even goddesses snap). Why should you?
PURDIE. Rather not. We were—hoping it would be you. We want to start on the walk. I can't think what has become of the others. We have been looking for them everywhere. (He glances vaguely round the room, as if they might so far have escaped detection.)
ALICE (pleasantly). Well, do go on looking; under that flower-pot would be a good place. It is my husband I am in search of.
PURDIE (who likes her best when they are in different rooms). Shall I rout him out for you?
ALICE. How too unutterably kind of you, Mr. Purdie. I hate to trouble you, but it would be the sort of service one never forgets.