Jemima: Says she’s getting better.
Bloggs: Is she? (He sits by the fire in his hat and coat. The inevitable Hooker slouches in, similarly clad, and takes his place on the other side. A melancholy silence reigns.)
Hooker (at last): It’s raining again.
Jemima (bringing in the milk-jug): The thunder’s turned the milk sour.
Bloggs (dismally): I thought it would.
Hooker (shivering, and hugging himself in his coat): There’s a thick fog, and it’s very damp.
Bloggs (gloomily): There always is.
Hooker: Yes. (The fire contributes to the general depression by a shower of soot, and a sudden belch of acrid yellow fumes.)
Bloggs: Jemima, the fire’s smoking.
Jemima (wearily): I’ll make it up in a minute. (She worries it with various implements. More soot falls and the smoke increases. She stirs it aimlessly with the poker. It flickers and goes out for the last time. They, and the audience, are too depressed to care. They sit staring blankly at the grate as the cold and fog gradually invade the room.)