ards the drawing-room] Your
father coming up to-night?

FREDA. Yes.

SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him
here after dinner, will you?

FREDA. Yes, Sir William.

SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if
he's got it.

He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly
tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of
skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a
nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress.

CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU?

FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine--Mrs. Keith, I mean.
My lady told me to give you these.

CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother!

FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne.
My lady thought white would suit her better.

CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress.

[FREDA lowers the roses quickly.]

What do you think of Joan's engagement?

FREDA. It's very nice for her.

CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals?

FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing.

CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking.
Any news?

FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning,
won't marry Rose Taylor, after all.

CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there
was--she was--I mean----

FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say.

CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's
come?

FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty.

RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in
evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and
the air of a horseman.

KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed
a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney.
Where's that litter of little foxes?

FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith.

KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What?

CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here
since the flood.

KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat--eh, Freda?

CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young
Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny.

KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never
keep a serva