Brandon (going to sideboard to pour a drink for himself). Of course, books aren’t really in your line, are they, Kenneth? (He is opening a fresh bottle.)
Raglan. No—not really. Only Edgar Wallace.
Granillo. Oh—are you good at Edgar Wallace?
Raglan. Yes. Why? Are you?
Granillo. Yes—rather.
Raglan. Good Lord—I shouldn’t have thought you would have been.
Granillo. I am, though. Have you read his last one?
Raglan. Er—which last one?
Granillo. Oh—I can’t be as precise as all that.
Brandon (pouring again). Did you ever hear of old Gerry Wickham, Kenneth? An uncle of mine.
Raglan. Oh, yes—rather.
Brandon. Well, you know he’s died just lately.
Raglan. Oh—has he? Yes?
Brandon. Well, it’s his library (pouring) which he has very kindly (pouring) and unexpectedly (pouring) bestowed upon me.
Raglan. Good Lord!
Brandon. To the unspeakable mortification of Sir Johnstone Kentley.
Raglan. Oh, Sir Johnstone Kentley. He’s quite a famous collector, isn’t he?
Brandon. Yes. He’s coming here to-night.
Raglan. Good heavens—is he? It is the same man, isn’t it? He lives in Grosvenor Square and has a son.
Brandon (pause). Quite right, Kenneth. He lives in Grosvenor Square (pause), and has a son.
[Brandon comes down with his own drink, lights a cigarette, and sits down.
He also runs to a sister, and she’s coming too.
Raglan. Oh—really?
Brandon. Yes. A reward of ten pounds is offered
[ 20 ]
