(_Enter Florence Whitworth, in golfing tweeds with bag, and without hat, hair tumbled by the wind. She is a largemade girl of eighteen, supremely healthy and athletic._)
Florence. Eleanor Smith is tackling Elsie in the hall to play hockey for the High School Old Girls this afternoon. When she finds Elsie won't, she'll want to try me, so I'll keep out of the way, please.
Florence. We never do when the Rovers are playing at home. I wouldn't miss seeing the match this afternoon for the best game of hockey I ever had. (_Slinging the golf-bag in a corner._) Topping round on the links, uncle. You ought to have come.
Florence. Yes. And you're putting on weight. It's six years since you were here, and I'll bet you've gone up a stone a year.
Edmund. In my profession a portly figure is an asset. If you have a lean and hungry look, clients think it's because you sit up late running up bills of costs. If you look comfortable, they imagine you're too busy dining to think of the six and eightpences.
Florence. Yes. I never met a slacker yet who wasn't full of excellent excuses. Leo calls his poetry. You call yours business. Wait till you'll retire. You'll find it out then if you haven't a decent hobby.
Florence. It's invisible to the naked eye. You don't golf, and you don't play tennis or cricket or----
Florence. No wonder you're in bad condition with a secret vice like that. (_Goes to open window._)
Florence. It's blazing hot. I can't imagine what you want a fire for.
Florence. Sorry I spoke. No, I'm not. It serves him right for taking no exercise.
(_Enter Elsie Whitworth, who, like Florence, is tall and muscular, but with a slim beauty which, contrasted with Florence's loose limbs and occasional gawkishness, is, at twenty-two, comparatively mature. Her indoor dress, to honour the visiting uncle, is elaborate and bright._)
Florence. I know she does. That's why I'm hiding in here.
Elsie. They're a man short on the team, and----
Florence. Didn't you tell her I can't play to-day? Elsie. She thinks she can persuade you.
Florence (_gathering up her golf-bag_). Blow Eleanor Smith! She thinks hockey's everything. I hate fanatics. Elsie. She's waiting for you.
Florence. All right. I'll go. (_Exit Florence._)