Parbury.
Oh, worrying about the article, I suppose. [Goes to telephone.] Hullo! hullo! [Gives them a ring up.] Are you there? [Crossly.] Are you there? Well? [Pause; he listens.] Oh, of course, still harping on my article. I suppose that’s you, Jackson? Oh, well, if you’ll keep this confounded telephone quiet, and send a man to clear the neighbourhood of street singers, you’ll have a chance of receiving the copy in half-an-hour. What? All right, old man. Yes, yes. I’ll send it by special messenger. Yes. Goodbye! [Rings off, and hangs up tube.] That is another mistake—that telephone.
Miss Woodward.
I was afraid you would find it so.
Parbury.
You were right! You are always right! But my wife thought it would save me a lot of correspondence and a lot of going out. [Aside, with a sigh.] I always liked going out. [Aloud.] Make a note, please—get rid of the telephone. [Miss Woodward makes note.] [Goes to top of table, R.C.] Now we’ll get on, please. I’ve promised the article in half-an-hour. [Looks at his watch.] They go to press this afternoon.
Miss Woodward.
[Sits at desk, note-book before her.] Shall I read the last sentence?
Parbury.
Please.