Barlow. Yes. Some one claimed, at the club, the other day, that you were the biggest donkey in existence, and I denied it. I was wrong, old man, I was wrong, and I apologize. You are.
Yardsley. You are too modest, Jack. You forget—yourself.
Barlow. Well, perhaps I do; but I've nothing to conceal, and you have. You've been behaving in a most incomprehensible fashion this afternoon, as if you owned the house.
Yardsley. Well, what of it? Do you own it?
Barlow. No, I don't, but—
Yardsley. But you hope to. Well, I have no such mercenary motive. I'm not after the house.
Barlow (bristling up). After the house? Mercenary motive? I demand an explanation of those words. What do you mean?
Yardsley. I mean this, Jack Barlow: I mean that I am here for—for my own reasons; but you—you have come here for the purpose of—
[Dorothy enters with a tray, upon which are the tea things.
Barlow (about to retort to Yardsley, perceiving Dorothy). Ah! Let me assist you.