Jim. Folks can't thrive cramped up the way we are. If garden stuff won't go in the air, it can't be good for humans.
(A knock at the door. Without waiting for Sally, who starts towards door, Stephen Verity enters. He is fifty, iron grey, with a good deal of iron in his composition, though just now concerned more with the velvet glove than the mailed fist. A selfmade man, he is cynical, domineering, dryly humorous at times, an ugly customer if crossed, with a strong jaw and tightly closed lips. Dressed in morning coat and grey trousers with very square toed boots, turned down collar, black tie. His coat is good solid broadcloth, but the cut is palpably local.)
Stephen (off). Are ye in, Pilling? (He enters and sees Walter. Sally and Walter rise—grimacing at Walter.) Oh! (He stops short in doorway.)
Jim (with deference nicely regulated some degrees lower than that he showed Walter). Come in, Mr. Verity.
Walter (holding out hand). How do you do, Mr. Verity?
Ste. (shaking hands and speaking with laboured politeness). How do you do, Mr. Montgomery? (Dropping his hand—sneeringly.)
[He appropriates the wicker chair. Walter sits edgeways on the table.
I didn't expect to find you here. What are you doing? Looking after their souls?
Walter (pleasantly). I dropped in for a chat and a smoke, before going on to keep my appointment at your house. What are you doing? (Sits l. of table.)
Ste. I'm looking after their bodies, only some of them won't see it. Pilling's a tough nut to crack.