Carve. His. (Angrily, as Cyrus roughly handles a box.) Now then, mind what you're about! Those are etching things.
Cyrus. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?
Carve. That's a typewriter.
Cyrus. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines.
Carve. That was—his servant's.
Cyrus. Yours, you mean?
Carve. Yes, I mean mine.
Cyrus. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter for?
Carve. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?
Cyrus. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the front-door steps and your things after you.