MRS. MORLAND. Don’t, James. (She rises.) Simon is late, isn’t he?
MR. MORLAND. Very little. I heard the train a short time ago, and he might be here—just—if he had the luck to find a cab. But not if he is walking across the fields.
MRS. MORLAND. Listen!
MR. MORLAND. Yes, wheels. That is probably Simon. He had got a cab.
MRS. MORLAND. I do hope he won’t laugh at me for having lit a fire in his room.
MR. MORLAND (with masculine humour). I hope you put him out some bed-socks.
MRS. MORLAND (eagerly). Do you think he would let me? You wretch!
(She hurries out and returns in SIMON’S arms.
He is in a greatcoat and mufti. He looks his years, grizzled with grey hair and not very much of it, and the tuft is gone. He is heavier and more commanding, full of vigour, a rollicking sea-dog for the moment, but it is a face that could be stern to harshness.)
SIMON (saluting). Come aboard, sir.