only your crochets and quavers have sent our little ray of sunshine into a rapid decline.

Bobbie. Have you done it?

Joyce (weakly). The top treble thing's a little wobbly, but I'll ink it over afterwards.

(Mrs. Dermott is tidying window seat.)

Bobbie (kissing her hurriedly and loudly). Thanks, you're a lamb. I'll try it now.

Evangeline. Oh! Bobbie, don't try it now!

Bobbie. I shall. (He goes to piano, then turns furiously.) Well, really it is the limit. Why can't Oliver keep his rotten engine in the shed. It will scratch all the polish. (He takes the model off piano and bangs it on to the floor.)

Mrs. Dermott. Oh, Bobbie, don't break that thing. Oliver's so proud of it. I can't think why.

Bobbie. Well, I wish he'd go and be proud of it somewhere else. Look here, three distinct scratches.

Mrs. Dermott. Never mind dear. Griggs will get them out with sandpaper or something.

(Bobbie commences to play over the manuscript Joyce has just copied. Occasionally he stops and alters something with a pencil. No one takes any notice. The dialogue goes on just the same.)

(Coming down to Evangeline.) If you've nearly finished, Vangy dear, do put the typewriter away. It looks so untidy.

Evangeline (rather crossly, rising). Of course I quite see that until my room's done, I shall never be able to do any work at all. (Puts cover on typewriter, then pushes table up to back L.)

Mrs. Dermott. Don't be cross, darling. You know how worried I am over everything this morning. It's one long rush.

Evangeline (kissing her). Sorry dear. I quite understand, only I must have this story sent to the Clarion by Tuesday. If not, it won't be out until the August number.

Mrs. Dermott. You're a dear darling, and you work terribly hard. I only hope you won't overdo it.

Evangeline. Oh no, these stories are only pot boilers. They just fill in the time until my next novel is ready.

Bobbie (suddenly.). Listen, don't you think this is a ripping change? (He plays a few chords. He then sits back complacently.)

Mrs. Dermott. Perfectly lovely, darling.

Evangeline. It sounds very much like everything else to me.

Bobbie. Only because you haven't got any ear. As a matter of fact they're quite good chords. I shall put them into the new tomb-stone cycle.

Evangeline. Don't alter many of my words, will you?

Bobbie. Not many, but the bit about "worms gnawing the grave of my beloved" is a little too gloomy. Couldn't you make it butterflies?

(Joyce giggles.)

Evangeline. Don't be silly, Bobbie! butterflies don't live in graves. Well, you can use the first two verses as they are.

Bobbie. I will.

(He starts to play again, Mrs. Dermott is just going towards the stairs when there comes a ring and knock at the front door.)

Joyce (rising). My goodness, the Crombies—I must go and wash. I'm covered in ink. (Going to stairs.)

Evangeline (down L. of table). I shouldn't worry, dear, they'll be so overdressed themselves they will amply make up for any deficiencies in our appearances.

Joyce. I think I'd better go all the same. I must do my hair.

Bobbie. Don't dazzle them too much, dear.

(Exit Joyce upstairs. Griggs crosses in corridor to open front door.)

Evangeline (going to corridor). I'll be in presently, mother. I've left my note-book in the summer house, and I'm afraid of forgetting it.

Bobbie (still at piano). You'll meet them on the doorstep.

Evangeline. No, I shan't. I'm going through the drawing room window.

(Exit Evangeline, R.)

Mrs. Dermott (C.). Really it's most inconsiderate of her to leave me alone like this. Bobbie darling——  (Bobbie crosses to her, kisses her.)

(Re-enter Griggs.)

Griggs. Mrs. Crombie, Miss Faith Crombie.

(Enter Mrs. Crombie, and Faith. Mrs. Crombie is a well-preserved, rather flashy woman. Faith is a very pretty girl, perhaps a shade too self-assured. She is all right when by herself, but when compared with the Dermott girls, there is obviously a little something lacking.)