mr. george booth. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further from the tree.
mr. voysey. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold. Why don't they keep the fire up! [He proceeds to put coals on it.]
mr. george booth. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know, Voysey . . about those Alguazils?
mr. voysey. [through the rattling of the coals.] What?
mr. george booth. [trying to pierce the din.] Those Alguazils.
mr. voysey with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk handkerchief across mr. booth's shirt front.
mr. voysey. What d'you put your handkerchief there for?
mr. george booth. Measure of precau—[at that moment he sneezes.] Damn it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal garden—
mr. voysey. [slapping him on the back.] You're an old crock.
mr. george booth. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [He returns to his subject.] And if you think seriously, that I ought to sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [He looks with childlike enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly.] Why can't you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad.