CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. Any news?
FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, won't marry Rose Taylor, after all.
CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there was—she was—I mean——
FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say.
CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's come?
FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty.
RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a horseman.
KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. Where's that litter of little foxes?
FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith.
KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What?