Brandon (eyes on paper). Yes. That’s all right. Lay it there, will you? We’re using the table for books.
Sabot. But I can bring ze table from upstairs, sair?
Brandon. Oh, no. That’s all right, Sabot. Lay it there.
Sabot. No, sair, it will be no trouble to bring from upstairs.
Brandon (suavely). Nevertheless, Sabot, lay it there, will you?
Sabot (a little shamefaced at snub, under his breath). Very good, sair. (Goes to sideboard and commences laying cloth, etc., upon chest. There is a long pause.)
Brandon (reading from paper). Hullo—Hammond at it again. (Turns over paper to Stop Press.) 106 Not. . . . How many’s that, Sabot?
Sabot. The tenth, sair. (Pause.) He was missed at twenty-one, sair.
Brandon (again reading). I’m getting rather tired of Inquests on London Girls. . . . Also of Plucky London Typists’ Brave Attempts. . . . Also of Mrs. Meyrick. . . .
[Bell rings.
Ah—here we are. He’s early, whoever he is.
Sabot. To bring in here, sair?
Brandon, Yes—in here. [Sabot exits.
[Granillo rises, goes over to piano, and commences to play “Dance Little Lady” with a rather unpleasant brilliance. He looks significantly at Brandon while playing. He finishes tune, leaves off, and takes a drink at sideboard. He is now looking quite at ease and pleased with himself. Door opens. Sabot holds it back and Kenneth Raglan enters. He is young, fair, simple, good-looking, shy, foolish, and good. He has no ideas whatever. He still thinks that nightclubs are dens of delight, but that there is probably one girl in the world for him whom he will one day find. His pathetic ideal, in his bearing before the world, is sophistication. To hear him alluding to a “simply staggering binge, old boy,”
[ 18 ]
