MR. ICKY: (Tremulously) Ulsa, little Ulsa. (They embrace each other's torsos.)
MR. ICKY: (Hopefully) You've come back to help with the ploughing.
ULSA: (Sullenly) No, feyther; ploughing's such a beyther. I'd reyther not.
(Though her accent is broad, the content of her speech is sweet and clean.)
DIVINE: (Conciliatingly) See here, Ulsa. Let's come to an understanding.
(He advances toward her with the graceful, even stride that made him captain of the striding team at Cambridge.)
ULSA: You still say it would be Jack?
MR. ICKY: What does she mean?
DIVINE: (Kindly) My dear, of course, it would be Jack. It couldn't be Frank.
MR. ICKY: Frank who?
ULSA: It would be Frank!
(Some risque joke can be introduced here.)
MR. ICKY: (Whimsically) No good fighting...no good fighting...
DIVINE: (Reaching out to stroke her arm with the powerful movement that made him stroke of the crew at Oxford) You'd better marry me.
ULSA: (Scornfully) Why, they wouldn't let me in through the servants' entrance of your house.
DIVINE: (Angrily) They wouldn't! Never fear--you shall come in through the mistress' entrance.
ULSA: Sir!
DIVINE: (In confusion) I beg your pardon. You know what I mean?
MR. ICKY: (Aching with whimsey) You want to marry my little Ulsa?...
DIVINE: I do.
MR. ICKY: Your record is clean.
DIVINE: Excellent. I have the best constitution in the world--
ULSA: And the worst by-laws.
DIVINE: At Eton I was a member at Pop; at Rugby I belonged to Near-beer. As a younger son I was destined for the police force--
MR. ICKY: Skip that.... Have you money?...
DIVINE: Wads of it. I should expect Ulsa to go down town in sections every morning--in two Rolls Royces. I have also a kiddy-car and a converted tank. I have seats at the opera--
ULSA: (Sullenly) I can't sleep except in a box. And I've heard that you were cashiered from your club.
MR. ICKY: A cashier? ...
DIVINE: (Hanging his head) I was cashiered.
ULSA: What for?
DIVINE: (Almost inaudibly) I hid the polo bails one day for a joke.
MR. ICKY: Is your mind in good shape?
DIVINE: (Gloomily) Fair. After all what is brilliance? Merely the tact to sow when no one is looking and reap when every one is.
ME. ICKY; Be careful. ... I will-not marry my daughter to an epigram....
DIVINE: (More gloomily) I assure you I'm a mere platitude. I often descend to the level of an innate idea.
ULSA: (Dully) None of what you're saying matters. I can't marry a man who thinks it would be Jack. Why Frank would--
DIVINE: (Interrupting) Nonsense!
ULSA: (Emphatically) You're a fool!
MR. ICKY: Tut-tut! ... One should not judge ... Charity, my girl. What was it Nero said?--'With malice toward none, with charity toward all--'
PETER: That wasn't Nero. That was John Drinkwater.
MR. ICKY: Come! Who is this Frank? Who is this Jack?
DIVINE: (Morosely) Gotch.
ULSA: Dempsey.
DIVINE: We were arguing that if they were deadly enemies and locked in a room together which one would come out alive. Now I claimed that Jack Dempsey would take one--
ULSA: (Angrily) Rot! He wouldn't have a--
DIVINE: (Quickly) You win.
ULSA: Then I love you again.
MR. ICKY: So I'm going to lose my little daughter...
ULSA: You've still got a houseful of children,
(CHARLES, ULSA'S brother, coming out of the cottage. He is dressed as if to go to sea; a coil of rope is slung about his shoulder and an anchor is hanging from his neck.)
CHARLES: (Not seeing them) I'm going to sea! I'm going to sea!
(His voice is triumphant.)
MR. ICKY: (Sadly) You went to seed long ago.
CHARLES: I've been reading 'Conrad.'
PETER: (Dreamily) 'Conrad,' ah! 'Two Years Before the Mast,' by Henry James.
CHARLES: What?
PETER: Walter Pater's version of 'Robinson Crusoe.'
CHARLES: (To his feyther) I can't stay here and rot with you. I want to live my life. I want to hunt eels.
MR. ICKY: I will be here... when you come back....
CHARLES: (Contemptuously) Why, the worms are licking their chops already when they hear your name.
(It will be noticed that some of the characters have not spoken for some time. It will improve the technique if they can be rendering a spirited saxophone number.)
MR. ICKY: (Mournfully) These vales, these hills, these McCormick harvesters-- they mean nothing to my children. I understand.
CHARLES: (More gently) Then you'll think of me kindly, feyther. To understand is to forgive.
MR. ICKY: No...no....We never forgive those we can understand....We can only forgive those who wound us for no reason at all....
CHARLES: (Impatiently) I'm so beastly sick of your human nature line. And, anyway, I hate the hours around here.
(Several dozen more of MR. ICKY'S children trip out of the house, trip over the grass, and trip over the pots and dods. They are muttering 'We are going away,' and 'We are leaving you.')
MR. ICKY: (His heart breaking) They're all deserting me. I've been too kind. Spare the rod and spoil the fun. Oh, for the glands of a Bismarck.
(There is a honking outside--probably DIVINE'S chauffeur growing
