man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. On WANKLIN'S right
sits UNDERWOOD, the Manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw,
and steady eyes. Back to the fire is SCANTLEBURY, a very large,
pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald. Between him and
the Chairman are two empty chairs.

WILDER. [Who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping
grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] I say, this fire's the
devil! Can I have a screen, Tench?

SCANTLEBURY. A screen, ah!

TENCH. Certainly, Mr. Wilder. [He looks at UNDERWOOD.] That is--
perhaps the Manager--perhaps Mr. Underwood----

SCANTLEBURY. These fireplaces of yours, Underwood----

UNDERWOOD. [Roused from studying some papers.] A screen? Rather!
I'm sorry. [He goes to the door with a little smile.] We're not
accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now.

[He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly,
ironically.]

WILDER. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm!

[UNDERWOOD goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils!