SCENE: The drawing-room of a house in Courtfield Gardens,
South Kensington, on a morning in July, at some period not
long before the war of 1914-1918.

The furnishings betoken solid but not undecorative upper
middle-class comfort.

On the rise of the curtain A BOY of about fourteen, dressed
in the uniform of an Osborne naval cadet, is discovered. There
is something rigid and tense in his attitude, and his face is
blank and without expression.

There is the sound of someone in the hall. As the sound
comes nearer, he looks despairingly round, as if contemplating
flight. An elderly maid ( VIOLET) comes in, and stops in aston-
ishment at sight of him.

VIOLET: Master Ronnie!

RONNIE (With ill-managed sang-froid): Hello, Violet.

VIOLET: Why, good gracious! We weren't expecting you back till Tues-
day.

RONNIE: Yes, I know.

VIOLET: Why ever didn't you let us know you were coming, you silly
boy? Your mother should have been at the station to meet you. The
idea of a child like you wandering all over London by yourself. I
never did. However did you get in? By the garden, I suppose.

RONNIE: No. The front door. I rang and cook opened it.

VIOLET: And where's your trunk and your tuck box?

RONNIE: Upstairs. The taximan carried them up--

VIOLET: Taximan? You took a taxi?

RONNIEnods.

All by yourself? Well, I don't know what little boys are coming to,
I'm sure. What your father and mother will say, I don't know--

RONNIE: Where are they, Violet?

VIOLET: Church, of course.

RONNIE (Vacantly): Oh, yes. It's Sunday, isn't it?

VIOLET: What's the matter with you? What have they been doing to you
at Osborne?

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