orway passing STEEL, of whom he takes no
notice. STEEL hesitates, and would go away.

KATHERINE. Come in, Mr. Steel.

STEEL. The deputation from Toulmin ought to be here, Mrs. More.
It's twelve.

OLIVE. [Having made a little ball of newspaper-slyly] Mr. Steel,
catch!

[She throws, and STEEL catches it in silence.]

KATHERINE. Go upstairs, won't you, darling?

OLIVE. Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy? Then I shall see if any
soldiers pass.

KATHERINE. No. You can go out on the terrace a little, and then you
must go up.

[OLIVE goes reluctantly out on to the terrace.]

STEEL. Awful news this morning of that Pass! And have you seen
these? [Reading from the newspaper] "We will have no truck with the
jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment.
The Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all
virile patriots." [He takes up a second journal] "There is a
certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot
resist the itch to advertise himself. We would, at moments of
national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we
suspect of incipient rabies . . . ." They're in full cry after
him!

KATHERINE. I mind much more all the creatures who are always
flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly! You know
what's in his mind?

STEEL. Oh! We must get him to give up that idea of lecturing
everywhere against the war, Mrs. More; we simply must.

KATHERINE. [Listening] The deputation's come. Go and fetch him,
Mr. Steel. He'll be in his room, at the House.

[STEEL goes out, and KATHERINE Stands at bay. In a moment he
opens the door again, to usher in the deputation; then retires.
The four gentlemen have entered as if conscious of grave issues.
The first and most picturesque is JAMES HOME, a thin, tall,
grey-bearded man, with plentiful hair, contradictious eyebrows,
and the half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over
polite, of one not accustomed to Society, yet secretly much
taken with himself. He is dressed in rough tweeds, with a red
silk tie slung through a ring, and is closely followed by MARK
WACE, a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with sleek dark
hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth way of continually rubbing
his hands together, as if selling something to an esteemed
customer. He is rather stout, wears dark cloth