Daniel. Eh?
Bobbie. I thought it was inland.
Daniel. So it is, but there's a lake, there's a lake! We used to sit round the camp fire in the evenings and cook the fish—yes, salmon and cucumber, and sing songs—sweet little homely ditties—your Rose song in particular, Bobbie, was a great success, I must say that——
Bobbie. Don't perjure yourself, uncle, I know perfectly well that it's the worst thing that has ever been written.
Sylvia. It's your most successful.
Bobbie. Of course—I've made literally hundreds out of it—the public wallow in it—roses and passion, and wine, and eyes of blue—it makes me absolutely sick every time I hear it, but still one must write down in this world if one wants to get up.
Mrs. Dermott. Speaking of roses, let's go out into the garden and talk—it's so stuffy in here—you can tell me some more of your adventures, Danny.
Sylvia (looking at him). I'm sure he'd love to.
(Every one gets up and drifts out on to the lawn talking. Bobbie hangs behind for a moment with Faith.)
Bobbie (anxiously). What did she say? (Catching her hand as she is going out.)