It is noon.In the Underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is burning.On one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the hall.In the centre of the room a long dining-table without a cloth is set out as a Board table.At the head of it, in the Chairman's seat, sits JOHN ANTHONY, an old man, big, clean-shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick dark eyebrows.His movements are rather slow and feeble, but his eyes are very much alive.There is a glass of water by his side.On his right sits his son EDGAR, an earnest-looking man of thirty, reading a newspaper.Next him WANKLIN, a man with jutting eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending over transfer papers.TENCH, the Secretary, a short and rather humble, nervous man, with side whiskers, stands helping him.On WANKLIN'S right sits UNDERWOOD, the Manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw, and steady eyes.Back to the fire is SCANTLEBURY, a very large, pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald.Between him and the Chairman are two empty chairs.

WILDER.[Who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] I say, this fire's the devil! Can I have a screen, Tench?

SCANTLEBURY.A screen, ah!

TENCH.Certainly, Mr.Wilder.[He looks at UNDERWOOD.] That is--perhaps the Manager--perhaps Mr.Underwood----SCANTLEBURY.These fireplaces of yours, Underwood----UNDERWOOD.[Roused from studying some papers.] A screen? Rather!

I'm sorry.[He goes to the door with a little smile.] We're not accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now.

[He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly, ironically.]

WILDER.[In an injured voice.] You mean the men.H'm!

[UNDERWOOD goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY.Poor devils!

WILDER.It's their own fault, Scantlebury.

EDGAR.[Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them, according to the Trenartha News.

WILDER.Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin.Suit his Radical views.

They call us monsters, I suppose.The editor of that rubbish ought to be shot.

EDGAR.[Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing amongst their work-people during this strike----"WILDER.Well, we have come.

EDGAR.[Continuing.] "We cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton hearts would remain untouched."

[WANKLIN takes the paper from him.]

WILDER.Ruffian! I remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself.

[ANTHONY says something that is not heard.]

WILDER.What does your father say?

EDGAR.He says "The kettle and the pot."

WILDER.H'm!

[He sits down next to SCANTLEBURY.]

SCANTLEBURY.[Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don't get that screen.

[UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before the fire.ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is twenty-eight years old.]

ENID.Put it closer, Frank.Will that do, Mr.Wilder? It's the highest we've got.

WILDER.Thanks, capitally.

SCANTLEBURY.[Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah! Merci, Madame!

ENID.Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his head.] Edgar--anything?

EDGAR.You might give me a "J" nib, old girl.

ENID.There are some down there by Mr.Scantlebury.

SCANTLEBURY.[Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses "J's." What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.]

What does your husband use, Mrs.Underwood?

UNDERWOOD.A quill!

SCANTLEBURY.The homely product of the goose.[He holds out quills.]

UNDERWOOD.[Drily.] Thanks, if you can spare me one.[He takes a quill.] What about lunch, Enid?

ENID.[Stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] We're going to have lunch here, in the drawing-room, so you need n't hurry with your meeting.

[WANKLIN and WILDER bow, and she goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY.[Rousing himself, suddenly.] Ah! Lunch! That hotel--Dreadful! Did you try the whitebait last night? Fried fat!

WILDER.Past twelve! Are n't you going to read the minutes, Tench?

TENCH.[Looking for the CHAIRMAN'S assent, reads in a rapid and monotonous voice.] "At a Board Meeting held the 31st of January at the Company's Offices, 512, Cannon Street, E.C.Present--Mr.Anthony in the chair, Messrs.F.H.Wilder, William Scantlebury, Oliver Wanklin, and Edgar Anthony.Read letters from the Manager dated January 20th, 23d, 25th, 28th, relative to the strike at the Company's Works.Read letters to the Manager of January 21st, 24th, 26th, 29th.Read letter from Mr.Simon Harness, of the Central Union, asking for an interview with the Board.Read letter from the Men's Committee, signed David Roberts, James Green, John Bulgin, Henry Thomas, George Rous, desiring conference with the Board; and it was resolved that a special Board Meeting be called for February 7th at the house of the Manager, for the purpose of discussing the situation with Mr.Simon Harness and the Men's Committee on the spot.

Passed twelve transfers, signed and sealed nine certificates and one balance certificate."[He pushes the book over to the CHAIRMAN.

ANTHONY.[With a heavy sigh.] If it's your pleasure, sign the same.

[He signs, moving the pen with difficulty.]

WANKLIN.What's the Union's game, Tench? They have n't made up their split with the men.What does Harness want this interview for?

TENCH.Hoping we shall come to a compromise, I think, sir; he's having a meeting with the men this afternoon.

WILDER.Harness! Ah! He's one of those cold-blooded, cool-headed chaps.I distrust them.I don't know that we didn't make a mistake to come down.What time'll the men be here?

UNDERWOOD.Any time now.

WILDER.Well, if we're not ready, they'll have to wait--won't do them any harm to cool their heels a bit.