TOMMY. I say, Wentworth, I thought you were keen on golf.
WENTWORTH. Only on my own.
TOMMY. You're a fraud. Here I've been absolutely wasting my precious time on you and—I suppose it wouldn't even interest you to hear that Gerald went round in seventy-two—five under bogey?
WENTWORTH. It would interest me much more to hear something about this girl he's engaged to.
TOMMY. Pamela Carey? Oh, she's an absolute ripper.
WENTWORTH. Yes, but you've said that of every girl you've met.
TOMMY. Well, dash it! you don't expect me to describe what she looks like, do you?
WENTWORTH. Well, no. I shall see that for myself directly. One gets introduced, you know, Tommy. It isn't as though I were meeting her at Charing Cross Station for the first time. But who is she?
TOMMY. Well, she was poor old Bob's friend originally. He brought her down here, but, of course, as soon as she saw Gerald—
WENTWORTH (quickly). Why, poor old Bob?