RONNY (wanting to be fair). Oh, well, there’s no accounting for tastes. Now, what do you think I found old man Chillingham reading last night?
NORAH (returning to her book). Don’t know.
RONNY. Broxoppiana. Ever heard of it?
NORAH. I’ve seen it on the bookstalls.
RONNY. Broxoppiana. That’s the name of the heroine, I suppose. And no better than she should be, if you ask me, because, when old man Chillingham saw I was looking, he slipped the book into his pocket and pretended to be very busy over another one.
NORAH. And I suppose you looked over his shoulder and found out what that one was too?
RONNY. Well, if you want to know, I didn’t. I knew [48]what it was without looking over his shoulder. It was The Science of Dry Fly Fishing. Old man Chillingham trying to be a sportsman in his old age.
NORAH (shutting her book). I think you had better have that whisky and soda, Ronny; at any rate, it will prevent you trying to discuss your host with another of his guests.
RONNY. Rot, old girl. Jack’s my host.
NORAH. This is not Jack’s house.