(Enter OLIVER and FREER.)
Oh, come in. Don't be afraid; it's a charade. (ANABEL rises.) No, don't go, Anabel. Corraggio! Take a seat, Mr. Freer.
JOB ARTHUR. Sounds like a sneezing game, doesn't it?
GERALD. It is. Do you know the famous rhyme:
Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes?
JOB ARTHUR. No, I can't say I do.
GERALD. My mother does. Will you have anything to drink? Will you help yourself?
JOB ARTHUR. Well—no—I don't think I'll have anything, thanks.
GERALD. A cherry brandy?—Yes?—Anabel, what's yours?
ANABEL. Did I see Kummel?