room; the two comfortable seats of the same pattern on the hearthrug;
and finally, on turning round and looking up, the massive brass pole
above the window, sustaining a pair of maroon rep curtains with
decorated borders of staid green. Altogether, a room well arranged to
flatter the occupant's sense of importance, and reconcile him to a
charge of a pound a day for its use.

Mrs. Clandon sits at the writing table, correcting proofs. Gloria is
standing at the window, looking out in a tormented revery.

The clock on the mantelpiece strikes five with a sickly clink, the
bell being unable to bear up against the black marble cenotaph in which
it is immured.

MRS. CLANDON. Five! I don't think we need wait any longer for the
children. The are sure to get tea somewhere.

GLORIA (wearily). Shall I ring?

MRS. CLANDON. Do, my dear. (Gloria goes to the hearth and rings.)
I have finished these proofs at last, thank goodness!

GLORIA (strolling listlessly across the room and coming behind her
mother's chair). What proofs?

MRS. CLANDON The new edition of Twentieth Century Women.

GLORIA (with a bitter smile). There's a chapter missing.

MRS. CLANDON (beginning to hunt among her proofs). Is there? Surely