)
MR. BARLOW. Come, Eva, you will excuse us for upsetting your evening.
Will you be so good as to play something for us to dance to?
EVA. Yes, sir. What shall I play?
WINIFRED. Mozart--I'll find you the piece. Mozart's the saddest
musician in the world--but he's the best to dance to.
MR. BARLOW. Why, how is it you are such a connoisseur in sadness,
darling?
GERALD. She isn't. She's a flagrant amateur.
(EVA plays; they dance a little ballet.)
MR. BARLOW. Charming--charming, Miss Wrath:--will you allow me to
say _Anabel_, we shall all feel so much more at home? Yes--thank you
--er--you enter into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, dear. The
others are accustomed to play together. But it is not so easy to
come in on occasion as you do.
GERALD. Oh, Anabel's a genius!--I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath--
familiarity is catching.
MR. BARLOW. Gerald, my boy, don't forget that you are virtually host
here.
EVA. Did you want any more music, sir?
GERALD. No, don't stay, Eva. We mustn't tire father. (Exit EVA.)
MR. BARLOW. I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to
excuse in us, in the way of manners. We have never been a formal
household. But you have lived in the world of artists: you will
understand, I hope.
ANABEL. Oh, surely---
MR. BARLOW. Yes, I know. We have been a turbulent family, and we
have had our share of sorrow, even more, perhaps, than of joys.
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