(LORD LOAM pales. He lays aside his musical instrument and hurriedly dons an apron. TWEENY gives him the bird to pluck, and busies herself laying the table for dinner.)
LORD LOAM (softly). What is he doing now?
TWEENY. I think he’s working out that plan for laying on hot and cold.
LORD LOAM (proud of his master). And he’ll manage it too. The man who could build a blacksmith’s forge without tools—
TWEENY (not less proud). He made the tools.
LORD LOAM. Out of half a dozen rusty nails. The saw-mill, Tweeny; the speaking-tube; the electric lighting; and look at the use he has made of the bits of the yacht that were washed ashore. And all in two years. He’s a master I’m proud to pluck for.
(He chirps happily at his work, and she regards him curiously.)
TWEENY. Daddy, you’re of little use, but you’re a bright, cheerful creature to have about the house. (He beams at this commendation.) Do you ever think of old times now? We was a bit different.
LORD LOAM (pausing). Circumstances alter cases. (He resumes his plucking contentedly.)
TWEENY. But, Daddy, if the chance was to come of getting back?