Armchairs encircle a high
ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are
not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is
burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the
billiard-room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and
doom; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with
commiseration.
BILL. What's the time?
HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any
consolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he
ate the man.
BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of
me, Harold.
HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any
better by marrying her?
[Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.]
BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things.
HAROLD. No, old man.
BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think
it!
HAROLD. My dear old chap!
BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I
suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so
high. I see it now that--I've got over the attack.
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