to any person or persons forcing, by dynamite or other means, more than two words out of her at the same time.
Raglan. Why—is she uncommunicative?
Brandon. “Is she uncommunicative! . . .” Uncommunicative, Kenneth, is not the word.
Raglan. Really? Tell me, Sir Johnstone’s son. Isn’t that Ronald Kentley, the lad who’s so frightfully good at sports?
Brandon. That’s right. You don’t know him, do you?
Raglan. No. I’ve never met him, but he wins hurdles, and hundreds of yards, and things like that, doesn’t he?
Brandon. Yes. That’s right. As a matter of fact, he’s the living image of yourself. Isn’t he, Granno?
Granillo. Yes. He is like.
Raglan. Me? In what way?
Brandon. Oh, in every way. Same age. Same eight. Same colour. Same sweet and refreshing innocence.
Raglan. Oh, shut up. I’m not an athlete, anyway.
Brandon. No. But you’re just as much alive. In fact, more so.
Raglan (awkwardly). Am I? Then you’re having Sir Johnstone here just sort of to make him grind his teeeth with envy about the books, then?
Brandon. On the contrary, I’m going to let him have exactly what he wants—provided I don’t want it. But I’m telling you all this, Kenneth, just to excuse the terrible mess we’re in. You’ll observe that we’re having our meal off a chest.
Raglan. Oh, yes. (Looks at chest.) I thought it looked rather weird.
Brandon. Good Lord, Kenneth. You’re getting positively fat.
Raglan. Am I?
[ 21 ]
