PRESS. This is an outrage on the Press.
JAMES. Then it'll wipe out one by the Press on the Public—an' leave just a million over! Hup!
POULDER. 'Enry, give 'im an 'and.
[THE PRESS mounts, assisted by JAMES and HENRY.]
L. ANNE. [Ecstatic] It's lovely!
POULDER. [Nervously] Mind the '87! Mind!
JAMES. Mind your feet in Mr. Poulder's favourite wine!
[A WOMAN'S voice is heard, as from the depths of a cave, calling
"Anne! Anne!">[
L. ANNE. [Aghast] Miss Stokes—I must hide!
[She gets behind POULDER. The three Servants achieve dignified positions in front of the bins. The voice comes nearer. THE PRESS sits dangling his feet, grinning. MISS STOKES appears. She is woman of forty-five and terribly good manners. Her greyish hair is rolled back off her forehead. She is in a high evening dress, and in the dim light radiates a startled composure.]