class, in the uniform of a colonel, and very well preserved at
forty-five, is comfortably seated at a writing-table with his
heels on it, reading The Morning Post. The door faces him, a
little to his left, at the other side of the room. The window is
behind him. In the fireplace, a gas stove. On the table a bell
button and a telephone. Portraits of past Mayors, in robes and
gold chains, adorn the walls. An elderly clerk with a short white
beard and whiskers, and a very red nose, shuffles in.

AUGUSTUS [hastily putting aside his paper and replacing his feet
on the floor]. Hullo! Who are you?

THE CLERK. The staff [a slight impediment in his speech adds to
the impression of incompetence produced by his age and
appearance].

AUGUSTUS. You the staff! What do you mean, man?

THE CLERK. What I say. There ain't anybody else.

AUGUSTUS. Tush! Where are the others?

THE CLERK. At the front.

AUGUSTUS. Quite right. Most proper. Why aren't you at the front?

THE CLERK. Over age. Fifty-seven.

AUGUSTUS. But you can still do your bit. Many an older man is in
the G.R.'s, or volunteering for home defence.