ALICE. No, I am not sure where he is.

LADY CAROLINE (with point). I wonder if the dear clever police know?

ALICE (imprudently). No, they don't.

(It is a very secondary matter to her. This woman of calamitous fires
hears and sees her tormentors chiefly as the probable owner, of the
cake which is standing on that tray.) So awkward, I gave my
sandwiches to a poor girl and her father whom I met in the wood, and
now . . . isn't it a nuisance--I am quite hungry. (So far with a
mincing bravado.) May I?

(Without waiting for consent she falls to upon the cake, looking over
it like one ready to fight them for it.)

PURDIE (sobered again). Poor soul.

LADY CAROLINE. We are so anxious to know whether you met a friend of
ours in the wood--a Mr. Dearth. Perhaps you know him, too?

ALICE. Dearth? I don't know any Dearth.

MRS. COADE. Oh, dear what a wood!

LADY CAROLINE. He is quite a front door sort of man; knocks and rings,
you know.

PURDIE. Don't worry her.