BOBBIE. I wonder how Uncle Daniel is.

MRS. CROMBIE (_rising_). You must all be wondering that. (_Goes to table powdering._) Faith, I shall go soon. I'm sure this man is going to be simply odious.

(_All except_ MRS. CROMBIE _and_ FAITH _go out to meet_ DANIEL. _All enter together talking about their various professions._ BOBBIE _to fireplace;_ OLIVER _behind table;_ SYLVIA _up stage;_ JOYCE _to form;_ EVANGELINE _above fireplace;_ MRS. CROMBIE _below table;_ MRS.

DERMOTT C.; DANIEL L.C.; FAITH R. _of table._)

MRS. DERMOTT. Oh, Danny, darling--let me introduce you to Mrs.

Crombie--my brother. And this is Faith--such a dear girl.

MRS. CROMBIE. How do you do. I've heard so much about you. Are you feeling better?

DANIEL (L.C., _jovially_). Better! Why, I never had a day's illness in my life--(_look from all_)--at least--that is until I had the illness.

Yes, it's very tiresome. (_He gulps._) A short life and a gay one, you know. (_He laughs forcedly._)

MRS. DERMOTT. Danny, darling, I _do_ hope----

DANIEL. Nonsense, dear--there is no hope--but that's a comfort to me. I always imagine hope weary after a game of blind man's buff sitting on an orange--so uncomfortable.

(MRS. CROMBIE _and_ FAITH _sit below and_ R. _of table respectively._)

MRS. DERMOTT (_sits Chesterfield, dabbing her eyes_). Really, Danny, you are too absurd.... I'm so glad Sylvia brought you safely, I never really feel happy in my mind when she's out with the car. It's not really woman's work.

DANIEL (_sitting armchair_). As far as I can gather from what she has been telling me--filming seems to require a certain amount of unwomanly abandon!

SYLVIA (_at back of Chesterfield, laughing_). I was only telling him about that day in the middle of the village street, when I had to do three "close ups" on top of one another.

MRS. DERMOTT. It all sounds vaguely immoral to me, but I hope it's all right.

DANIEL. Define the expression "close up." What does it mean?

SYLVIA. When they bring the camera right up to your face and you have to register various emotions--fear--suspicion--joy--yearning--sorrow--(_she does them_) that's a close up.

MRS. DERMOTT. Isn't she wonderful?

MRS. CROMBIE. It really is most entertaining.

DANIEL. I think they ought to film Evangeline's novel--it's chock full of incident.

EVANGELINE (_rising, poses by mantel_). Yes, uncle, but only psychological incident--they want luridly exciting episodes for a real thriller. I mean to write a scenario one day though, it's a money-making game. (_Sits again._)

MRS. DERMOTT. Do, dear--but please don't make the heroine jump out of attic windows or anything--it _is_ so trying for Sylvia--I shall never forget Westminster Bridge and that horse.

DANIEL. It appears to be a most dashing profession.

MRS. DERMOTT (_with pride_). Oh, it is. Sylvia does the most thrilling things, I a.s.sure you. She had to rescue the Rajah from a burning house in Piccadilly only last Wednesday. It caused a great sensation.

DANIEL. So I should imagine, but why was the Rajah burning in Piccadilly?

MRS. DERMOTT. Oh, it wasn't a real Rajah of course--but he was supposed to be in the clutch of Bolshevists--or was that another film, Sylvia?--I get so muddled----

SYLVIA. It was another film, mother, but it doesn't matter. How's your illness, Uncle Dan? You look pretty bright.

DANIEL. Oh, I expect to be quite cheery right up to the last.

MRS. DERMOTT. Oh, Danny dear, don't talk about it.

DANIEL (_with meaning_). I always think we attach too much importance to life and death.

MRS. CROMBIE (_acidly_). It depends on circ.u.mstances, of course.

DANIEL (_dramatically_). Out there where I come from----

JOYCE. Go on, uncle, do tell us.

DANIEL. I was just going to, only you interrupted me--out there on the limitless prairie, a man's life is not considered worth that much. (_He tries to snap his fingers without any success._) There now, I can never do that properly--that much. (_He tries again._) d.a.m.n!

BOBBIE. I can do it, uncle. (_He does it._)

JOYCE. So can I. (_She tries._) Oh, no I can't--Sylvia, you can. You had to when you were playing in "Spanish Pa.s.sion."

SYLVIA. Never mind now, let uncle get on with his story.

DANIEL. Out there Death waits round every corner----

BOBBIE. I didn't know there were any corners on the limitless prairie.

DANIEL (_testily_). I was millions of miles away from any prairie--and, anyhow, I was only speaking metaphorically.

SYLVIA. You are irritating, Bobbie, why can't you keep quiet.

MRS. CROMBIE. There seems to be some doubt, Mr. Davis, as to what part of America you were in.

DANIEL. South America--firmly South America--in the little tiny wee, bijou village of Santa Lyta--far away from the beaten track, this lonely place lies basking in the sun. Heavens, how it basked! its natives care-free and irresponsible, dreaming idly through the long summer heat----

OLIVER. What did you do there, uncle?

DANIEL. Eh?

OLIVER. What did you do there, uncle?

DANIEL (_coming to earth_). Oh, er--lots of things--fishing--yachting.

BOBBIE. But I thought it was inland.

DANIEL. Eh?

BOBBIE. I thought it was inland.

DANIEL. So it is, but there's a lake, there's a lake! We used to sit round the camp fire in the evenings and cook the fish--yes, salmon and cuc.u.mber, and sing songs--sweet little homely ditties--your Rose song in particular, Bobbie, was a great success, I must say that----