round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes
out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is
sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to
catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out
the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In
the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a
solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of
reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at
the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures
round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this
moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in.
He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face,
and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he
comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes.]

RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.

VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury.

RICHARD. No.

VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.

RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then,
your last guess.

VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.

RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and
goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the