HARRY: And what about the harm to--(_tapping his chest_) Do roses get
pneumonia?

ANTHONY: Oh, yes--yes, indeed they do. Why, Mr Archer, look at Miss
Claire herself. Hasn't she given her heat to the roses?

HARRY: (_pulling the rug around him, preparing for the blizzard_) She
has the fire within.

ANTHONY: (_delighted_) Now isn't that true! How well you said it. (_with
a glare for this appreciation_, HARRY _opens the door. It blows away
from him_) Please do close the door!

HARRY: (_furiously_) You think it is the aim of my life to hold it open?

ANTHONY: (_getting hold of it_) Growing things need an even temperature,
(_while saying this he gets the man out into the snow_)

(ANTHONY _consults the thermometer, not as pleased this time as he was
before. He then looks minutely at two of the plants--one is a rose, the
other a flower without a name because it has not long enough been a
flower. Peers into the hearts of them. Then from a drawer under a shelf,
takes two paper bags, puts one over each of these flowers, closing them
down at the bottom. Again the door blows wildly in, also_ HATTIE, _a
maid with a basket_.)

ANTHONY: What do you mean--blowing in here like this? Mrs Archer has
ordered--