MRS. BRAMSON (_looking at her book_): Oh ... (_Picking a paper
out of it_.) What's this? (_Reading ponderously_) A sonnet.
"The flame of passion is not red but white, not quick but slow--"

OLIVIA (_going to her and snatching it from her with a cry_):
Don't!

MRS. BRAMSON: Writing poetry! That's a hobby and a half, I must say!
"Flame of passion ..." _well!_

OLIVIA (_crossing to the fireplace_): It's only a silly poem I
amused myself with at college. It's not meant for anybody but me.

MRS. BRAMSON: You're a dark horse, you are.

MRS. TERENCE _enters from the kitchen. She is the cook, middle-aged,
Cockney, and fearless. She carries a bunch of roses_.

MRS. TERENCE (_grimly_): Would you be wanting anything?

MRS. BRAMSON: Yes. Clear away.

MRS. TERENCE: That's Dora's job. Where's Dora?

OLIVIA: She's gone into the clearing for some firewood.

MRS. BRAMSON: You can't expect the girl to gather firewood with one
hand and clear breakfast with the other. Clear away.