Peter. I'm not talking to the drawing-room miss. She's a stranger to me. I'm talking to the real woman, the woman I knew outside there, stripped of the veil of lies you try to hide behind.
Glad. But you don't know me. I never met you till to-night.
Peter. I didn't know your name until to-night. What do names matter? Your eyes had blazed into my soul.
[The door opens violently, and Jones, wearing his hat, bursts in followed by Freddie, who is mildly protestant. Peter and Gladys rise.
Jones (crossing to centre). What's the meaning of this, Garside?
Fred (following and tapping him on the bach). I say, don't you even take your hat off in a lady's presence?
Jones (growlingly). Ugh! (But he takes his hat off.)
Peter. How dare you force your way in here?
Jones. I may well come. You're wanted outside.
Meetings shouting themselves hoarse for you. Chances passing while you loll here in plutocratic luxury, idling in the gilded chambers of our enemies. Faugh! (Kicking chair violently centre. Freddie picks up the cushion from it and offers it.)