Grice. (Threateningly) Tarver! Wilson is not the only elector in the Lumley division who is wavering.
Phyllis. (Starts) Oh, Admiral!
Faraday. (Seated L.) You, Grice, you?
Phyllis. Oh, you couldn't vote against Bobby!
Grice. Perhaps not, but I might try.
Tarver. Oh! I'll bring my Atlas! (Speaks despairingly. Turns up R., looking for tonic.)
Phyllis. (Running to Admiral) Oh, yes, Bobby will be delighted to bring his Atlas.
Grice. Bobby will be delighted to take away his Atlas. (Martin enters L.I with copy of the "London Times" and a small folded periodical on salver.) Tarver, geography, eight o'clock sharp. Dinner, eight fifteen. (Turns to table.)
Martin. The Times, sir.
Faraday. At last.