Oh, I
do wish you'd stop mother persecuting me in the holidays like this!
But you can't, you dear old thing. Father says the old gods are
dead. I wish they'd come alive again. (_Crosses to table._)
(_Enter Denham. Undine drops embroidery, kicks it under the table,
and sits._)
Denham.
Well, imp, what's up now? (_He comes to the fireplace, and takes a
pipe from the rack._) Rags again! I shall have to lock them up, I
see. (_Takes up the embroidery, and throws it over a chair._) Get to
your work at once! Sit up straight. (_He crosses L, seats
himself in the armchair, lights his pipe, and takes up the book,
Undine resumes her crouched position at the table._)
Undine.
(_pouting_) It's very hard to have to do sums in the holidays.
Denham.
(_crosses to table behind Undine_) You are behind your class, you
know. (_Looking over her._) Well, seven times three?
Undine.
Let's see--twenty-one?
Denham.
And how many shillings in that?
Undine.
I suppose two shillings and one penny.
Denham.
Nonsense! Don't suppose anything so un-English. How many pence in a
shilling?
Undine.
Twelve--I suppose.
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