MARY ROSE (puzzled). There was once some one who laughed in this house. Don’t you think laughter is a very pretty sound?
HARRY (out of his depths). Is it? I dare say. I never thought about it.
MARY ROSE. You are quite old.
HARRY. I’m getting on.
MARY ROSE (confidentially). Would you mind telling me why every one is so old? I don’t know you, do I?
HARRY. I wonder. Take a look. You might have seen me in the old days—playing about—outside in the garden—or even inside.
MARY ROSE. You—you are not Simon, are you?
HARRY. No. (Venturing.) My name is Harry.
MARY ROSE (stiffening). I don’t think so. I strongly object to your saying that.
HARRY. I’m a queer sort of cove, and I would like to hear you call me Harry.