Walter. I knew you were a successful man, sir.
Ste. I've made my way. I began low and I'm no class now, bar what they think of me at the bank—and that's a fat lot more than they think of any fine Polygon gentlemen. Would you like to know where Lucy's bit comes from?
Walter. Really, I'm——
Ste. Her grandfather kept the Black Bull. That's where it was made, except what I've added to it. Stinks of beer, that money does. Pubs were a good thing in his time for a landlord that kept off the drink.
Walter. I've no doubt it was honestly made.
Ste. Aye, ye would think that now you fancy your chance of fingering it. It was made in the way of business same as my own was, and that means the best man won and he hadn't time to stand still and think about honesty. Too busy downing the other fellow for that. And now you've got it. That's me, sir, builder and contractor, and married a publican's daughter. Feeling as keen set on Lucy as you were?
Walter. I don't believe very much in artificial class distinctions, Mr. Verity.
Ste. Don't you? Not in your business hours, you mean. Not so long as you remember you're a parson.
Lucy. Father! (Rises.)
Ste. Well, what's the matter with you? Do you want to marry him?