De Castro.
After a pause, loosening his collar—in a low voice. Here! We’d better dithcuth thith experiment. Glancing over his shoulder at the waiter. Let’th come and thit in the pit.
Gabrielle.
Rising. I can’t argue; my head’s too bad for that.
De Castro.
Leading her to the double-door. I don’t want to argue; I thimply want to arrive at an underthtandin’. Thuppothin’ I buy you a car, am I to be made an arth of at the nexth danthe we happen to meet at—yeth or no?——
They go out on to the landing and disappear as Fulkerson hurries in at the right-hand door at the back. His eyes are rather glassy and his utterance is a little thick.
Fulkerson.
To the waiter, joining him behind the counter. Hi! Wake up, there! Gla’sodawa’erf’misspirch’nth’stage. Distinctly. Misspirch—on th’stage—gla’—sodawa’er. I’ll have a whiskey. Wh’sthwhiskey? Which—is—the—whiskey? Than’g. Pouring some whiskey into a tumbler. You take sodaw’er t’ Misspirch; I’ll mix m’own whiskey. Loo’ sharp, sodaw’er Misspirch. The waiter goes out with the drinks and Fulkerson, glass in hand, comes to the nearer side of the counter. He swallows his drink greedily, singing to himself between the gulps. “Oh, the gals! Oh, the gals! I am awfully fond of the gals! Putting his empty glass upon the counter and making for the door on the left. Be they ebon or blond, Of the gals I am fond; I am dreadfully fond of the gals!”
He vanishes as Farncombe and Lily enter at the right-hand door at the back. There is an air of constraint and uneasiness about the girl. She comes to the nearer settee in the centre and again picks up her bouquet. Farncombe follows her. They talk in subdued voices and with frequent pauses.