Bul. He does. It is his weird and warlike way.
Car. He comes. (Rises.) His fancy-flight has ended for the nonce. My soldier-minstrel has returned to earth!
Tom enters from balcony. Caroline goes to meet him, and brings him forward lovingly. His appearance is somewhat altered. He parts his hair in the centre, and allows it to grow long. He wears a very low lie-down collar in order to look Byronic. Caroline throws herself at his feet, and Mr. and Mrs. Effingham cross and group themselves about him. Mrs. Effingham kneels, Bulstrode standing moodily behind his mother.
Mr. Eff. Arthur, ennoble us. Raise us one step towards the Empyrean. Give us a Great Thought!
Bul. From the vast treasures of your poet brain, we beg some spare small change.
Tom. Well, I really don’t know; I haven’t anything just now.
Car. We are the bees, and you the flower. We beg some honey for our little hives.
Tom (with a desperate effort to be brilliant). Talking of bees (all take out note-books and write down what follows)—talking of bees, have you ever remarked how the busy little insect avails herself of the sunshine to gather her sweet harvest from—from every opening flower?
Mr. Eff. (writing). We have, we have. How true to fact!
Bul. (writing). You said “her sweet harvest,” I think?