CYRUS. What--travelling?

CARVE. Yes. Why not?

CYRUS. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the business man's mild
scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage?

CARVE. Mine.

CYRUS. All of it?

CARVE. That is----

CYRUS. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.

CARVE. His. (Angrily, as CYRUS roughly handles a box.) Now then,
mind what you're about! Those are etching things.

CYRUS. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?

CARVE. That's a typewriter.

CYRUS. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines.

CARVE. That was--his servant's.

CYRUS. Yours, you mean?

CARVE. Yes, I mean mine.