Dickie.
[Going to the telephone.] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a ballet-girl in your life.
Barlow.
No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove with persons of that profession.
Dickie.
Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten? I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [He puts on the receiver—to himself, acidly.] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.
Barlow.
Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.
Dickie.
Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by voluntary contributions.