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
fireplace.) How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.)
VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father.
RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway.
Anything in the paper?
VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that--
RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.
VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.
RICHARD. It would be.
VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.
RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.
VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as
father.
RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that
before. ... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?
VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the
other day.
RICHARD. No, I don't, really.
VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled
by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means,
but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.
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