JAMES. [Embarrassed] Well-'e can be.
L. ANNE [Mining] James – we're quite safe down here, aren't we, in a revolution? Only, we wouldn't have fun. Which would you rather – be safe, or have fun?
JAMES. [Grimly] Well, I had my bit o' fun in the war.
L. ANNE. I like fun that happens when you're not looking.
JAMES. Do you? You'd ha' been just suited.
L. ANNE. James, is there a future life? Miss Stokes says so.
JAMES. It's a belief, in the middle classes.
L. ANNE. What are the middle classes?
JAMES. Anything from two 'undred a year to supertax.
L. ANNE. Mother says they're terrible. Is Miss Stokes middle class?
JAMES. Yes.
L. ANNE. Then I expect they are terrible. She's awfully virtuous, though, isn't she?
JAMES. 'Tisn't so much the bein' virtuous, as the lookin' it, that's awful.
L. ANNE. Are all the middle classes virtuous? Is Poulder?
JAMES. [Dubiously] Well. Ask him!
L. ANNE. Yes, I will. Look!
[From an empty bin on the ground level she picks up a lighted taper, – burnt almost to the end.]
JAMES. [Contemplating it] Careless!
L. Ate. Oh! And look! [She paints to a rounded metal object lying in the bin, close to where the taper was] It's a bomb!
She is about to pick it up when JAMES takes her by the waist and puts her aside.
JAMES. [Sternly] You stand back, there! I don't like the look o' that!
L. ANNE. [With intense interest] Is it really a bomb? What fun!
JAMES. Go and fetch Poulder while I keep an eye on it.
L. ANNE. [On tiptoe of excitement] If only I can make him jump! Oh, James! we needn't put the light out, need we?
JAMES. No. Clear off and get him, and don't you come back.
L. ANNE. Oh! but I must! I found it!
JAMES. Cut along.
L. ANNE. Shall we bring a bucket?
JAMES. Yes. [ANNE flies off.]
[Gazing at the object] Near go! Thought I'd seen enough o'them to last my time. That little gas blighter! He looked a rum 'un, too – one o' these 'ere Bolshies.
[In the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are too much for him. He sits on the ground, leaning against one of the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large, lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee. Taking out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between his dips. There enter, behind him, as from a communication trench, POULDER, in swallow-tails, with LITTLE ANNE behind him.]
L. ANNE. [Peering round him – ecstatic] Hurrah! Not gone off yet! It can't – can it – while James is sitting on it?
POULDER. [Very broad and stout, with square shoulders, – a large ruddy face, and a small mouth] No noise, Miss. – James.
JAMES. Hallo!
POULDER. What's all this?
JAMES. Bomb!
POULDER. Miss Anne, off you go, and don't you —
L. ANNE. Come back again! I know! [She flies.]
JAMES. [Extending his hand with the pipe in it] See!
POULDER. [Severely] You've been at it again! Look here, you're not in the trenches now. Get up! What are your breeches goin' to be like? You might break a bottle any moment!
JAMES. [Rising with a jerk to a sort of "Attention!"] Look here, you starched antiquity, you and I and that bomb are here in the sight of the stars. If you don't look out I'll stamp on it and blow us all to glory! Drop your civilian swank!
POULDER. [Seeing red] Ho! Because you had the privilege of fightin' for your country you still think you can put it on, do you? Take up your wine! 'Pon my word, you fellers have got no nerve left!
[JAMES makes a sudden swoop, lifts the bomb and poises it in both hands. POULDER recoils against a bin and gazes, at the object.]
JAMES. Put up your hands!
POULDER. I defy you to make me ridiculous.
JAMES. [Fiercely] Up with 'em!
[POULDER'S hands go up in an uncontrollable spasm, which he subdues almost instantly, pulling them down again.]
JAMES. Very good. [He lowers the bomb.]
POULDER. [Surprised] I never lifted 'em.
JAMES. You'd have made a first-class Boche, Poulder. Take the bomb yourself; you're in charge of this section.
POULDER. [Pouting] It's no part of my duty to carry menial objects; if you're afraid of it I'll send 'Enry.
JAMES. Afraid! You 'Op o' me thumb!
[From the "communication trench" appears LITTLE ANNE, followed by a thin, sharp, sallow-faced man of thirty-five or so, and another FOOTMAN, carrying a wine-cooler.]
L. ANNE. I've brought the bucket, and the Press.
PRESS. [In front of POULDER'S round eyes and mouth] Ah, major domo, I was just taking the names of the Anti-Sweating dinner. [He catches sight of the bomb in JAMES'S hand] By George! What A.1. irony! [He brings out a note-book and writes] "Highest class dining to relieve distress of lowest class-bombed by same!" Tipping! [He rubs his hands].
POULDER. [Drawing himself up] Sir? This is present! [He indicates ANNE with the flat of his hand.]
L. ANNE. I found the bomb.
PRESS. [Absorbed] By Jove! This is a piece of luck! [He writes.]
POULDER. [Observing him] This won't do – it won't do at all!
PRESS. [Writing-absorbed] "Beginning of the British Revolution!"
POULDER. [To JAMES] Put it in the cooler. 'Enry, 'old up the cooler. Gently! Miss Anne, get be'ind the Press.
JAMES. [Grimly – holding the bomb above the cooler] It won't be the Press that'll stop Miss Anne's goin' to 'Eaven if one o' this sort goes off. Look out! I'm goin' to drop it.
[ALL recoil. HENRY puts the cooler down and backs away.]
L. ANNE. [Dancing forward] Oh! Let me see! I missed all the war, you know!
[JAMES lowers the bomb into the cooler.]
POULDER. [Regaining courage – to THE PRESS, who is scribbling in his note-book] If you mention this before the police lay their hands on it, it'll be contempt o' Court.
PRESS. [Struck] I say, major domo, don't call in the police! That's the last resort. Let me do the Sherlocking for you. Who's been down here?
L. ANNE. The plumber's man about the gas – a little blighter we'd never seen before.
JAMES. Lives close by, in Royal Court Mews – No. 3. I had a word with him before he came down. Lemmy his name is.
PRESS. "Lemmy!" [Noting the address] Right-o!
L. ANNE. Oh! Do let me come with you!
POULDER. [Barring the way] I've got to lay it all before Lord William.
PRESS. Ah! What's he like?
POULDER. [With dignity] A gentleman, sir.
PRESS. Then he won't want the police in.
POULDER. Nor the Press, if I may go so far, as to say so.
PRESS. One to you! But I defy you to keep this from the Press, major domo: This is the most significant thing that has happened in our time. Guy Fawkes is nothing to it. The foundations of Society reeling! By George, it's a second Bethlehem!
[He