CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. (Looking doubtfully at his clothes) Er—it is Mr. Denis Clifton, the solicitor?
CLIFTON (cheerfully). It is. I must apologize for not looking the part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions.
CRAWSHAW (bewildered). Ah yes, quite so. But you have—ah—full legal authority to act in this matter?
CLIFTON.. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.
CRAWSHAW (introducing). My wife—and daughter. (CLIFTON bows gracefully.) My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton.
CLIFTON (happily).Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a situation, as we say in the profession.
RICHARD (amused by him). In the legal profession?
CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession.(Turning to MARGARET) I am a writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have thanked me for submitting my work to them.
CRAWSHAW (firmly).I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony Clifton.
CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced the profession of a solicitor—(Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW) But you know what these official embraces are.