CARVE. Had you? Well, will you sit down--er--I say (with a humorous
mysterious air). What do you think of that chap? (Pointing in
direction of hall.)

JANET. Who is it?

CARVE. It's Mr. Cyrus Carve. The great West End auctioneer.

(Sound of front-door shutting rather too vigorously.)

JANET. Well, I see no reason why he should look at me as if I'd insulted
him.

CARVE. Did he?

JANET. "Good-morning," I said to him. "Excuse me, but are you Mr. Albert
Shawn?" Because I wasn't sure, you know. And he looked.

CARVE. (After laughing.) The man is an ass.

JANET. Is he?

CARVE. Not content with being an ass merely, he is a pompous and a
stupid ass. (Laughs again to himself.) Now there is something very
important that he ought to know, and he wouldn't let me tell him.
JANET. Really?

CARVE. Yes, very important. But no. He wouldn't let me tell him. And
perhaps if I'd told him he wouldn't have believed me.