Muriel (watching him drive away). Dr. Roberts admires you dreadfully. Is that a romance?
Viola. For him perhaps—not for me! And it isn't a mystery!
[A telegram is brought in.
Viola. Oh, how delightful! Alan Roy, the wonderful boy harpist, is coming down! He's coming by the early train! He'll be here directly!
Muriel. You never told me you had asked him! I suppose you forgot it—or remembered it. Doesn't he profess to be even younger than he is? I mean, when he was four, didn't he say he was three? I wonder if he'll come down in a sailor-suit.
Viola. He's quite nineteen. Here are those tiresome Averidges again! I thought I got rid of them for a long drive. (Aloud.) Ah! Here is dear Mr. Averidge!
Mr. Averidge (ponderously, to Muriel). And how is Miss Vane to-day? Looking as she always does, like a rose in June.
Muriel (coldly). Yes, Mr. Averidge?
Viola (to Mrs. Averidge and Albert, who are coming up the steps of the terrace). Alan Roy is coming down, the Alan Roy. He will be here directly.
Albert. All right, though I don't approve of child artists. Poor little chap!