[Enter THOMAS, GREEN, BULGIN, and ROUS, who file up in a row past the little table. TENCH sits down and writes. All eyes are foxed on ANTHONY, who makes no sign.]
WANKLIN. [Stepping up to the little table, with nervous cordiality.] Well, Thomas, how's it to be? What's the result of your meeting?
ROUS. Sim Harness has our answer. He'll tell you what it is. We're waiting for him. He'll speak for us.
WANKLIN. Is that so, Thomas?
THOMAS. [Sullenly.] Yes. Roberts will not pe coming, his wife is dead.
SCANTLEBURY. Yes, yes! Poor woman! Yes! Yes!
FROST. [Entering from the hall.] Mr. Harness, Sir!
[As HARNESS enters he retires.] [HARNESS has a piece of paper in his hand, he bows to the Directors, nods towards the men, and takes his stand behind the little table in the very centre of the room.]
HARNESS. Good evening, gentlemen.
[TENCH, with the paper he has been writing, joins him, they speak together in low tones.]