knock upon the door. He rises quickly and opens it. Sabot, in overcoat, is at door, with a newspaper in hand. He is an alert, very dark little Frenchman, with a long nose and a blueness of cheek which no amount of shaving will eradicate. He is an almost perfect servant—intelligent, alert and obedient, but not, perhaps, completely impersonal—his employers being in the habit of making occasional advances to him. Whoever he is with he has an air of being breathlessly anxious to apologise for something or anything. He is married, quietly ambitious, industrious, and will have a restaurant of his own one of these days.
Sabot. Ze evening paper, sair?
Brandon. Oh—thank you very much, Sabot.
Sabot. I thought you might like to look at it, sair. (Smiles shyly.)
Brandon. Very welcome, Sabot. Many thanks.
Sabot. Not at all, sair.
[Brandon closes the door in Sabot’s face, and comes down to armchair L. He catches Granillo’s eye but looks away again. Opens paper.
Brandon (his eyes fixed on paper). Sorry for my little outburst, Granno. But it rather upset me.
Granillo (eyes fixed on book). Not at all. You’re Quite correct. I should have seen it. How it got there I don’t know.
Brandon. Neither do I. What’s the time?
Granillo (comparing wrist-watch with clock). About five to.
Brandon. Then we can expect our first guest.
Granillo. Yes.
[Sabot enters, carrying large tray. He comes over and deposits it on sideboard. He comes into centre of room and looks first at Granillo and then at Brandon. He addresses Brandon.
Sabot. Ze table, sair?
[ 17 ]
