Will [frankly]. Nay, not very weary—but hungry.
Anne. Poor boy. He shall have his supper now.
Giles [protesting]. 'E be allus eating 'ere, and I canna a-bear it. Let him sup at his own whoam.
Will [shaking his head]. I dare na go home, for na doubt my father'll beat me rarely. I'll bide here till he be asleep. [He places himself easily in the armchair by the fire.]
Giles [going sulkily]. Thriftless young loon!
Anne [laying the table]. Hast had a splendid day?
Will [absently]. Aye. In the great park at Charlecote. There you can lie on your back in the grass under the high arches of the trees, where the sun rarely peeps in, and you can listen to the wind in the trees, and see it shake the blossoms about you, and watch the red deer and the rabbits and the birds—where everything is lovely and still. [His voice trails off into silence. Anne smiles knowingly.]
Anne. Thou'lt be making poetry before long, eh, Will?—Will? [To Peele] The boy hath not heard a word I spoke.
Peele [coming forward]. Would he hear me, I wonder! Boy!
Will [starting]. Sir? [Peele looks down on him sternly.]