P. (Wearily.) Gone to lunch with Mr. Welby.
Ralph. Welby, ha! Welby is taking advantage of me. Why didn’t I invite Mr. Greathead to lunch with me. (Runs fingers through hair, assumes dignified air which is very comical.) May be I’m not so well dressed as Welby, but clothes have nothing to do with literature.
P. But they do with books.
Ralph. A fine distinction. Mrs. Fadd wears good clothes. Mr. Powers, while we are all alone, suppose I just read you a few poems from my new volume, “The Pith Soldier, and Other Poems?” They far surpass the “Dead Canary.” You’ll want them.
P. Mr. Hyde-Arlington, we never do that. It’s against the rules.
Ralph. I mean just in an informal way between ourselves. You know the success attained by my “Dead Canary.”
P. Impossible, my dear sir. The building may take fire.
Ralph. (Starting.) Fire! What’s that you said?
P. I mean—go on sir. (R. begins unwrapping package.)
P. (Aside.) I’ll try the fire alarm. (Before he can ring bell)—