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When Curtain rises, it is a fine afternoon and all the French windows stand open.SIRHENRYANGKATELL, KCB., a distinguished-looking, elderly man, is seated at the Right end of the sofa, reading “The Times.”HENRIETTAANGKATELLis on the terrace outside the French windows up Centre, standing at a tall sculptor’s stand, modelling in clay. She is a handsome young woman of about thirty-three, dressed in good country tweeds and over them a painter’s overall. She advances and retreats towards her creation once or twice, then enters up Centre and moves to the coffee table below the sofa. There is a smear of clay on her nose, and she is frowning.

HENRIETTA. (As she enters) Damn and damn and damn!

SIRHENRY. (Looking up) Not going well?

HENRIETTA. (Taking a cigarette from the box on the coffee table) What misery it is to be a sculptor.

SIRHENRY. It must be. I always thought you had to have models for this sort of thing.

HENRIETTA. It’s an abstract piece I’m modelling, darling.

SIRHENRY. What—(He points with distaste to the piece of modern sculpture on the pedestal Right) like that?

HENRIETTA. (Crossing to the mantelpiece) Anything interesting in The Times? (She lights her cigarette with the table lighter on the mantelpiece.)

SIRHENRY. Lots of people dead. (He looks atHENRIETTA.) You’ve got clay on your nose.

HENRIETTA. What?

SIRHENRY. Clay—on your nose.

HENRIETTA. (Looking in the mirror on the mantelpiece; vaguely) Oh, so I have. (She rubs her nose, then her forehead, turns and moves Left Centre.)

SIRHENRY. Now it’s all over your face.

HENRIETTA. (Moving up Centre; exasperated) Does it matter, darling?

SIRHENRY. Evidently not.

(HENRIETTA goes on to terrace up Centre and resumes work. LADY ANGKATELL enters Right. She is a very charming and aristocratic-looking woman aged about sixty, completely vague, but with a lot of personality. She is apparently in the middle of a conversation.)

LADYANGKATELL. (Crossing above the sofa to the fireplace) Oh dear, oh dear! If it isn’t one thing it’s another. Did I leave a mole trap in here? (She picks up the mole trap from the mantelpiece and eases Centre) Ah yes—there it is. The worst of moles is—you never know where they are going to pop up next. People are quite right when they say that nature in the wild is seldom raw. (She crosses below the sofa to Right.) Don’t you think I’m right, Henry?

SIRHENRY. I couldn’t say, my dear, unless I know what you’re talking about.

LADYANGKATELL. I’m going to pursue them quite ruthlessly—I really am.

(Her voice dies away as she exits Right.)

HENRIETTA. (Looking in through the French window up Centre.) What did Lucy say?

SIRHENRY. Nothing much. Just being Lucyish. I say, it’s half past six.

HENRIETTA. I’ll have to stop and clean myself up. They’re all coming by car, I suppose? (She drapes a damp cloth over her work.)

SIRHENRY. All except Midge. She’s coming by Green Line bus. Ought to be here by now.

HENRIETTA. Darling Midge. She is nice. Heaps nicer than any of us, don’t you think? (She pushes the stand out of sight Right of the terrace.)

SIRHENRY. I must have notice of that question.