[Archie scrambles into the room through the open window on the left and then rises to his feet, flushed and panting. Archie is a boy of eight years, dressed in white breeches, jersey and cap. He wears spectacles, has a lively manner and speaks with the slight trace of a foreign accent.]
BEATRICE.
[Going towards him.] Goodness gracious, Archie! What is the matter?
ARCHIE.
[Rising, out of breath.] Eh! I ran all the avenue.
ROBERT.
[Smiles and holds out his hand.] Good evening, Archie. Why did you run?
ARCHIE.
[Shakes hands.] Good evening. We saw you on the top of the tram, and I shouted Mr Hand! But you did not see me. But we saw you, mamma and I. She will be here in a minute. I ran.
BEATRICE.
[Holding out her hand.] And poor me!
ARCHIE.
[Shakes hands somewhat shyly.] Good evening, Miss Justice.
BEATRICE.
Were you disappointed that I did not come last Friday for the lesson?
ARCHIE.
[Glancing at her, smiles.] No.
BEATRICE.
Glad?