Well, it's straight of you to tell me. I suppose you'd rather come and dine some other evening? If so——
Pringle.
No. A promise is a promise. I'll come. Mind you, I don't pretend it won't be an effort—but I'll see what I can do for you.
Horace.
[Gratefully.] You are a good chap, Pringle!—one of the best! Though, really, after what you've told me, I hardly like——
Pringle.
Not another word. Anything I can say on your behalf—without too wide a departure from strict accuracy—I'll say with pleasure. [Going up to door.] Eight o'clock's the hour, isn't it? All right. [He goes out.]
[Horace makes a movement towards the fireplace, as if to ring the bell. Then his eye is caught by the brass bottle, which is standing in the centre of the room. He stops, looks at his watch, and decides that he has time to open the bottle. He examines the cap on its neck, then goes to sideboard and takes from it a heavy paper-weight and a champagne-opener, returns to chair on right of table and sits, holding the bottle between his knees. Using the champagne-opener as a chisel, and the paper-weight as hammer, he proceeds to chip away the deposit round the cap, whistling an air from a musical comedy as he works.
Horace.
[To himself.] I've loosened it. [He seizes the cap and tries to screw it off.] It's giving!