papers are put; beneath the window on the other side is a
writing-table. The walls are decorated impartially with heads of
wild animals and of Farringdons.]

[At the present moment the inhabitants of the hall are three. HENRY
WENTWORTH, a barrister between forty, and fifty, dressed in rather
a serious tweed suit, for a summer day, is on the sofa. THOMAS
TODD, an immaculate young gentleman of twenty-five, is half-sitting
on the gate-legged table with one foot on the ground and the other
swinging. He is dressed in a brown flannel coat and white trousers,
shoes and socks, and he has a putter in his hand indicative of his
usual line of thought. The third occupant is the Butler, who, in
answer to TOMMY'S ring, has appeared with the drinks.]

[The time is about four o'clock on a June afternoon.]

TOMMY (to the Butler). Thanks, James; just leave it here. [Exit Butler.]
Whisky or lemonade, Wentworth?

WENTWORTH. Neither, thanks, Tommy.

TOMMY. Well, I will. (He pours himself out some lemonade and takes
a long drink.) I should have thought you would have been thirsty,
driving down from London a day like this. (He finishes his drink.)
Let's see, where was I up to? The sixth, wasn't it?

WENTWORTH. The sixth, Tommy. (With resignation) Only twelve more.

TOMMY. Yes, that's right. Well, at the seventh I got an absolutely
topping drive, but my approach was sliced a bit. However, I chipped