WELLWYN. We all have our discrepancies, Vicar.
ANN. Daddy! Discrepancies!
WELLWYN. Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson's an Individualist, but as regards liquids he's a Socialist . . . or 'vice versa', according to taste.
BERTLEY. No, no, we mustn't joke about it. [Gravely.] I do think he should be spoken to.
WELLWYN. Yes, but not by me.
BERTLEY. Surely you're the proper person.
WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] It was my rum, Vicar. Look so personal.
[There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.]
WELLWYN. Isn't that the Professor's knock?
[While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens it. There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead, which completely dominates all that comes below it.]