Rupert. Good night, Granillo.
Granillo (again at sideboard; turning round, as though startled). Good night, Rupert.
[Rupert goes out. Granillo sips at another drink, and looks in front of him blankly and miserably. Staggers down stage to chair. Bangs glass down on table. Puts head in hands. Brandon enters. He stops for a moment in doorway, with a little smile of satisfaction on his lips. He goes over to window and draws curtains to, and then to sideboard and pours himself out a drink.
Brandon. Well?
Granillo (from hands). Well?
Brandon (taking his drink with relish). All’s well.
[Comes down to chest and plants his foot on it.
Granillo. God! I thought he got on to it.
Brandon. Who? Rupert?
Granillo. Yes.
Brandon. Yes. So did I. For a few moments. But that’s what gave piquancy to the evening. He hadn’t.
Granillo. You’re sure he hadn’t?
Brandon. Quite sure. (Pause while he drinks.) I sometimes rather wish he had. God. Rupert. Queer lad. I wonder. (Reflectively.) If he had been with us he wouldn’t have got drunk, Granno.
Granillo (looking up from hands). I not drunk. . . . I’m a little blurred, that’s all. (Sits up stiffly.) Hullo! What’s that?
Brandon. What?
Granillo. I thought I heard something.
Brandon. Be yourself, Granno.
Granillo. I thought it was the bell. (Pause, as both listen.)
[The bell is heard ringing.
It was! It was!
Brandon (finishing his drink: evenly.) Well. (Gulp.)
[ 69 ]
