NORWOOD. I—er—Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So you're back?
DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. Norwood, and sometimes—they do. . . . Even after four years. . . . But you did talk about me sometimes?
NORWOOD. How did you know my name?
DENNIS. A little bird told me about you.
NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh!
DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the backs of crocodiles, searching for—well, let us say, breakfast. He said to me one morning: "Talking of parasites," he said, "do you know Mr. Cyril Norwood?" he said, "because I could tell you an interesting story about him," he said, "if you care to—"
NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we'd better have it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults and sneers from you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has arisen, but we must look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. Camberley's husband, but she has not seen you for four years, and—well, she and I love each other. There you have it. What are you going to do?
DENNIS (anxiously). You don't feel that I have neglected her, Mr. Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very well, and—
NORWOOD. What are you going to do?
DENNIS (pleasantly). Well, what do you suggest?