Ste. (returning the letter to Alcorn). What isn't encouraging?
Alcorn. Why, this. (Reading the letter.) "Speaking for myself alone, I consider it extremely improbable that Sir Charles will consent to a sale of the Polygon to your company." (Leaves letter on the table.)
Ste. There's nothing to be afraid of there.
Alcorn. I don't know so much about that. These land owning fellows know they're no good at business. They leave it to their agents, and if the agent writes like that, you can take it he knows.
Ste. He knows all right. Sir Charles isn't a business man, but his agent is. If there's a chance of selling, that agent wants a top price; naturally he writes that way to bluff us into raising our offer.
Bamford. You've a head on your shoulders, Verity.
Ste. (to Bamford). It all depends on what you told us. If your information's correct, they'll be only too glad to sell.
Alcorn. Yes. It's you that told us Sir Charles is in low water.
Bamford. He's dropped a pot of money lately. It's a well known fact. I know one bookie that's taken ten thousand off him in the season, and he's not the only one.
Alcorn (sanctimoniously). Deplorable wastrel.