The curtain rises on the Barthwick’s dining-room, large, modern, and well furnished; the window curtains drawn.  Electric light is burning.  On the large round dining-table is set out a tray with whisky, a syphon, and a silver cigarette-box.  It is past midnight.

A fumbling is heard outside the door.  It is opened suddenly; jack Barthwick seems to fall into the room.  He stands holding by the door knob, staring before him, with a beatific smile.  He is in evening dress and opera hat, and carries in his hand a sky-blue velvet lady’s reticule.  His boyish face is freshly coloured and clean-shaven.  An overcoat is hanging on his arm.

Jack.  Hello!  I’ve got home all ri——­[Defiantly.] Who says I sh’d never ‘ve opened th’ door without ’sistance. [He staggers in, fumbling with the reticule.  A lady’s handkerchief and purse of crimson silk fall out.] Serve her joll’ well right—­everything droppin’ out.  Th’ cat.  I ’ve scored her off—­I ’ve got her bag. [He swings the reticule.] Serves her joly’ well right. [He takes a cigarette out of the silver box and puts it in his mouth.] Never gave tha’ fellow anything! [He hunts through all his pockets and pulls a shilling out; it drops and rolls away.  He looks for it.] Beastly shilling! [He looks again.] Base ingratitude!  Absolutely nothing. [He laughs.] Mus’ tell him I’ve got absolutely nothing.

[He lurches through the door and down a corridor, and presently returns, followed by Jones, who is advanced in liquor.  Jones, about thirty years of age, has hollow cheeks, black circles round his eyes, and rusty clothes:  He looks as though he might be unemployed, and enters in a hang-dog manner.]

Jack.  Sh! sh! sh!  Don’t you make a noise, whatever you do.  Shu’ the door, an’ have a drink. [Very solemnly.] You helped me to open the door—­I ’ve got nothin, for you.  This is my house.  My father’s name’s Barthwick; he’s Member of Parliament—­Liberal Member of Parliament:  I’ve told you that before.  Have a drink! [He pours out whisky and drinks it up.] I’m not drunk [Subsiding on a sofa.] Tha’s all right.  Wha’s your name?  My name’s Barthwick, so’s my father’s; I’m a Liberal too—­wha’re you?

Jones. [In a thick, sardonic voice.] I’m a bloomin’ Conservative.  My name’s Jones!  My wife works ’ere; she’s the char; she works ’ere.

Jack.  Jones? [He laughs.] There’s ’nother Jones at College with me.  I’m not a Socialist myself; I’m a Liberal—­there’s ve—­lill difference, because of the principles of the Lib—­Liberal Party.  We’re all equal before the law—­tha’s rot, tha’s silly. [Laughs.] Wha’ was I about to say?  Give me some whisky.

     [Jones gives him the whisky he desires, together with a squirt
     of syphon.]