) Finch: some
crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh?
McCOMAS (firmly). Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing
heating. (He walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting
temptation behind him.)
PHILIP. Valentine---?
VALENTINE. Would Lager be considered vulgar?
PHILIP. Probably. We'll order some. Dolly takes it. (Turning to
Crampton with cheerful politeness.) And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we
do for you?
CRAMPTON. What d'ye mean, boy?
PHILIP. Boy! (Very solemnly.) Whose fault is it that I am a boy?
(Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely
pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect
politeness.)
DOLLY (looking over Crampton's right shoulder). The whisky's on the
last page but one.
CRAMPTON. Let me alone, child.
DOLLY. Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you
mustn't call me child. (She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two
stand looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.)
CRAMPTON (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even
by their playing with him). McComas: we are--ha!--going to have a
pleasant meal.
McCOMAS (pusillanimously). There is no reason why it should not be
pleasant. (He looks abjectly gloomy.)
PHILIP. Finch's face is a feast in itself.
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