Glad. (looking up from her book, calmly). Till Mr. Garside goes.
Fred. And he hasn't come yet. Just when I particularly want to go out, too. It's all very well for the governor to be civil to him. He's got to. But I do bar doing the honours myself to a horny-handed son of toil.
Glad. (putting her book beside her, face downwards. With an air of resignation). You don't particularly want to go out. You're only going to the Club.
Fred. (seriously). But I particularly want to go to the Club.
Glad. You go every night.
Fred. Every night isn't my lucky night. Thursday is. I always win on Thursdays. The governor ought to do his own dirty work. He's Mayor, not I. Cutting his duty, I call it, being away to-night just when I'm bound to make money.
Glad. He'll be here when he's ready. He's going to be late on purpose.
Fred. Very much on purpose. Yes. There you've got it. He had Rankin and Beverley here to dinner together. Quite right, too. Rankin's a Radical rotter, but he's a gentleman. When it comes to Garside the governor shirks and leaves it to us. Why on earth he wants to ask a Labour candidate here at all simply floors me.
Glad. He has to treat them all alike.
Fred. Then he should have had Garside to dinner, and given us some sport over the asparagus.