winds of life have lashed and bled; here and there ragged graces
still cling to her, and unruly passion smoulders, but she, once a
dear, fierce rebel, with eyes of storm, is now first of all a
whimperer. She and they meet as strangers.)

MARGARET (nicely, as becomes an artist's daughter.) Good evening.

ALICE. Good evening, Missy; evening, Mister.

DEARTH (seeing that her eyes search the ground). Lost anything?

ALICE. Sometimes when the tourists have had their sandwiches there are
bits left over, and they squeeze them between the roots to keep the
place tidy. I am looking for bits.

DEARTH. You don't tell me you are as hungry as that?

ALICE (with spirit). Try me. (Strange that he should not know that
once loved husky voice.)

MARGARET (rushing at her father and feeling all his pockets.) Daddy,
that was my last biscuit!

DEARTH. We must think of something else.

MARGARET (taking her hand). Yes, wait a bit, we are sure to think of
something. Daddy, think of something.

ALICE (sharply). Your father doesn't like you to touch the likes of
me.