You’re not cold, my love?
Lady Patricia.
No, no, dear, no. But I might be later on. (To Baldwin, who has been staring fixedly into the branches.) What are you doing, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
It’s main ’ard to keep a h’eye on the sun, m’lady, an’ mine ain’t no longer w’at they was. Might I arst, mum, if the sun’s ’bout right for loppin’ off they branches?
Michael.
Lopping off the branches?
Clare.
(From above.) Oh! I’ve found a cup!
Michael.