Somers. I say, which bedroom was it? (Earnestly).
Penfold. That I can't tell you, but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here, the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his four-post bed and tried to strangle him.
Beldon (jumps up, gets behind his chair, twists chair round; nervously). O, I say, that'll do. I wish you'd thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.
Penfold. What for?
Beldon. Well, I should take jolly good care not to sleep in it, that's all. (Goes to back.)
(Penfold rising, goes to fire, and knocks out his pipe, Leek gets by arm-chair.)
Penfold. There's nothing to fear. I don't believe for a moment that ghosts could really hurt one. (George lights candle at table.) In fact, my father used to say that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that, for all practical purposes, Jerry's fingers might have been made of cotton wool for all the harm they could do.
(George hands candle, gets to door and holds it open.)
Beldon. That's all very fine, a ghost story is a ghost story, but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost that haunts the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly.
(Beldon places his chair to L. of table R. Penfold goes up to C. Leek sits in arm chair. Beldon goes to fireplace.)