cigarette-box. It is past midnight.

A fumbling is heard outside the door. It is opened suddenly;
JACK BARTHWICK seems to fall into the room. He stands holding
by the door knob, staring before him, with a beatific smile.
He is in evening dress and opera hat, and carries in his hand a
sky-blue velvet lady's reticule. His boyish face is freshly
coloured and clean-shaven. An overcoat is hanging on his arm.


JACK. Hello! I've got home all ri----[Defiantly.] Who says I
sh'd never 've opened th' door without 'sistance. [He staggers in,
fumbling with the reticule. A lady's handkerchief and purse of
crimson silk fall out.] Serve her joll' well right--everything
droppin' out. Th' cat. I 've scored her off--I 've got her bag.
[He swings the reticule.] Serves her joly' well right. [He takes a
cigarette out of the silver box and puts it in his mouth.] Never
gave tha' fellow anything! [He hunts through all his pockets and
pulls a shilling out; it drops and rolls away. He looks for it.]
Beastly shilling! [He looks again.] Base ingratitude! Absolutely
nothing. [He laughs.] Mus' tell him I've got absolutely nothing.

[He lurches through the door and down a corridor, and presently
returns, followed by JONES, who is advanced in liquor. JONES,
about thirty years of age, has hollow cheeks, black circles
round his eyes, and rusty clothes: He looks as though he might
be unemployed, and enters in a hang-dog manner.]

JACK. Sh! sh! sh! Don't you make a noise, whatever you do. Shu'
the door, an' have a drink. [Very solemnly.] You helped me to open