LORD W. [With a charming smile] I know. The Press has to put its--
er--to go to the bottom of everything. Where's this bomb, Poulder?
Ah!
[He looks into the wine cooler.]
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Could I have a word with you on
the crisis, before dinner, Lord William?
LORD W. It's time you and James were up, Poulder. [Indicating the
cooler] Look after this; tell Lady William I'll be there in a
minute.
POULDER. Very good, me Lord.
[He goes, followed by JAMES carrying the cooler.]
[As THE PRESS turns to look after them, LORD WILLIAM catches
sight of his back.]
LORD W. I must apologise, sir. Can I brush you?
PRESS. [Dusting himself] Thanks; it's only behind. [He opens his
note-book] Now, Lord William, if you'd kindly outline your views on
the national situation; after such a narrow escape from death, I feel
they might have a moral effect. My paper, as you know, is concerned
with--the deeper aspect of things. By the way, what do you value
your house and collection at?
LORD W. [Twisting his little mustache] Really: I can't! Really!
PRESS. Might I say a quarter of a million-lifted in two seconds and
a half-hundred thousand to the second. It brings it home, you know.
LORD W. No, no; dash it! No!
PRESS. [Disappointed] I see--not draw attention to your property in
the present excited state of public feeling? Well, suppose we
approach it from the viewpoint of the Anti-Sweating dinner.
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