MISS BEECH. Oh! dear!

[She sits down on the swing, concealing the paint pot with her feet and skirts.]

JOY. [On the rustic seat, and in a violent whisper.] I hope the worms will crawl up your legs!

[d.i.c.k, in flannels and a hard straw hat comes in. He is a quiet and cheerful boy of twenty. His eyes are always fixed on joy.]

d.i.c.k. [Grimacing.] The Colonel's getting licked. Hallo! Peachey, in the swing?

JOY. [Chuckling.] Swing her, d.i.c.k!

MISS BEECH. [Quivering with emotion.] Little creature!

JOY. Swing her!

[d.i.c.k takes the ropes.]

MISS BEECH. [Quietly.] It makes me sick, young man.

d.i.c.k. [Patting her gently on the back.] All right, Peachey.

MISS BEECH. [Maliciously.] Could you get me my sewing from the seat? Just behind Joy.

JOY. [Leaning her head against the tree.] If you do, I won't dance with you to-night.

[d.i.c.k stands paralysed. Miss BEECH gets off the swing, picks up the paint pot, and stands concealing it behind her.]

JOY. Look what she's got behind her, sly old thing!

MISS BEECH. Oh! dear!

JOY. Dance with her, d.i.c.k!

MISS BEECH. If he dare!

JOY. Dance with her, or I won't dance with you to-night.

[She whistles a waltz.]

d.i.c.k. [Desperately.] Come on then, Peachey. We must.

JOY. Dance, dance!

[d.i.c.k seizes Miss BEECH by the waist. She drops the paint pot.

They revolve.] [Convulsed.]

Oh, Peachey, Oh!

[Miss BEECH is dropped upon the rustic seat. d.i.c.k seizes joy's hands and drags her up.]

No, no! I won't!

MISS BEECH. [Panting.] Dance, dance with the poor young man! [She moves her hands.] La la-la-la la-la la la!

[d.i.c.k and JOY dance.]

d.i.c.k. By Jove, Joy! You've done your hair up. I say, how jolly!

You do look----

JOY. [Throwing her hands up to her hair.] I did n't mean you to see!

d.i.c.k. [In a hurt voice.] Oh! didn't you? I'm awfully sorry!

JOY. [Flashing round.] Oh, you old Peachey!

[She looks at the ground, and then again at d.i.c.k.]

MISS BEECH. [Sidling round the tree.] Oh! dear!

JOY. [Whispering.] She's been letting out your worms.

[Miss BEECH disappears from view.]

Look!

d.i.c.k. [Quickly.] Hang the worms! Joy, promise me the second and fourth and sixth and eighth and tenth and supper, to-night. Promise!

Do!

[Joy shakes her head.]

It's not much to ask.

JOY. I won't promise anything.

d.i.c.k. Why not?

JOY. Because Mother's coming. I won't make any arrangements.

d.i.c.k. [Tragically.] It's our last night.

JOY. [Scornfully.] You don't understand! [Dancing and clasping her hands.] Mother's coming, Mother's coming!

d.i.c.k. [Violently.] I wish----Promise, Joy!

JOY. [Looking over her shoulder.] Sly old thing! If you'll pay Peachey out, I'll promise you supper!

MISS BEECH. [From behind the tree.] I hear you.

JOY. [Whispering.] Pay her out, pay her out! She's let out all your worms!

d.i.c.k. [Looking moodily at the paint pot.] I say, is it true that Maurice Lever's coming with your mother? I've met him playing cricket, he's rather a good sort.