Parbury.
Please do. Cut the other; it doesn’t make up anything.
Miss Woodward.
[Reading.] “One gathers from the complacency of his manner that his iconoclasm is its own reward.”
Parbury.
Thanks. Where’s his article?
[Miss Woodward rises, gives him an open magazine, and resumes her seat.
[After glancing at the magazine, and still in a low voice.] “His smug self-sufficiency——” [Pause.]
Mrs. Parbury.
Darling! I can’t hear you.