Hansen. Now we're all here.
Helms. Make yourselves comfortable. [They all take seats.]
[Bolling sits rigid in the arm chair absently twirling his fingers.
Krakau, who has once or twice shown the impulse to go over to Helms, stirs uneasily but turns his back to his window.
A silence falls.
Suddenly Hansen begins to whistle, a tuneless mournful strain.]
Johnston [whispering confidentially]. My dear Peter, one doesn't whistle at a birthday party.
Hansen [mocking him]. My dear Henry, mind your own affairs.
Johnston. You have the soul of a greengrocer.
Hansen. You have the manners of a barber.