I have something to do.
CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a
directorship or something in the City.
RICHARD. I hate the City.
CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual
arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at
Basingstoke.
RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me.
CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing
personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest
boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not
allowed to interfere with his private friendships.
RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
[Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for
twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is
small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call
her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.]
MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was
all right.
RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.
MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable). Yes--er--h'rm--Richard--er--
what are your--er--plans?
RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?
MARGARET. Of course not. (TO ROBERT) Are you, dear?
CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret.
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