Brandon (pouring out whisky. Quietly). How queer—exactly?
Rupert. Oh, just queer. Us all talking to-night about rotting bones in chests. It just came back to me, that’s all.
Brandon (intent upon pouring, and as though suddenly seeing light). Oh! I see what you mean! Yes! Are you going to have some of this, Rupert?
Rupert. What’s that? Whisky? Yes. Thank you.
Brandon. All right! Don’t get up. I’ll bring it over. . . . (Pours it out.) Say when. . . .
Rupert. When. No. A little more. When. When!
[Brandon brings it over to him.
Thank you.
Brandon (holding up his glass). Happy days.
Rupert. How’s the old man getting on with his books?
Brandon. Going to take the entire library away with him, as far as I can see. I’m simply saying good-bye to it.
Rupert. I didn’t know you were a book collector.
Brandon. I’ve only been one for about a year.
Rupert. What exactly is your line?
Brandon. Well—I’ve theories about some of the Victorians. Everything comes round, you know, in time.
Rupert. For example? . . .
Brandon. For example? Well . . . Matthew Arnold Carlyle, and people of that sort.
Rupert. Matthew Arnold, perhaps.
Brandon. What’s wrong with Carlyle, anyway?
Rupert. My dear Brandon. An unspeakable person. Pull yourself together.
Brandon. Oh, I don’t agree with you. He’s got guts, anyway.
Rupert (screwing up his face). Guts!
[ 46 ]
