Hodson [reassured].  Yes sir.

Broadbent.  You don’t feel nervous about it, I suppose?

Hodson.  Not at all, sir.  I’ll risk it, sir.

Broadbent.  Have you ever been in Ireland?

Hodson.  No sir.  I understand it’s a very wet climate, sir.  I’d better pack your india-rubber overalls.

Broadbent.  Do.  Where’s Mr Doyle?

Hodson.  I’m expecting him at five, sir.  He went out after lunch.

Broadbent.  Anybody been looking for me?

Hodson.  A person giving the name of Haffigan has called twice to-day, sir.

Broadbent.  Oh, I’m sorry.  Why didn’t he wait?  I told him to wait if I wasn’t in.

Hodson.  Well Sir, I didn’t know you expected him; so I thought it best to—­to—­not to encourage him, sir.

Broadbent.  Oh, he’s all right.  He’s an Irishman, and not very particular about his appearance.

Hodson.  Yes sir, I noticed that he was rather Irish....

Broadbent.  If he calls again let him come up.

Hodson.  I think I saw him waiting about, sir, when you drove up. 
Shall I fetch him, sir?

Broadbent.  Do, Hodson.

Hodson.  Yes sir [He makes for the outer door].

Broadbent.  He’ll want tea.  Let us have some.

Hodson [stopping].  I shouldn’t think he drank tea, sir.

Broadbent.  Well, bring whatever you think he’d like.

Hodson.  Yes sir [An electric bell rings].  Here he is, sir.  Saw you arrive, sir.

Broadbent.  Right.  Show him in. [Hodson goes out.  Broadbent gets through the rest of his letters before Hodson returns with the visitor].

Hodson.  Mr Affigan.

Haffigan is a stunted, shortnecked, smallheaded, redhaired man of about 30, with reddened nose and furtive eyes.  He is dressed in seedy black, almost clerically, and might be a tenth-rate schoolmaster ruined by drink.  He hastens to shake Broadbent’s hand with a show of reckless geniality and high spirits, helped out by a rollicking stage brogue.  This is perhaps a comfort to himself, as he is secretly pursued by the horrors of incipient delirium tremens.

Haffigan.  Tim Haffigan, sir, at your service.  The top o the mornin to you, Misther Broadbent.

Broadbent [delighted with his Irish visitor].  Good afternoon, Mr Haffigan.

Tim.  An is it the afthernoon it is already?  Begorra, what I call the mornin is all the time a man fasts afther breakfast.

Broadbent.  Haven’t you lunched?

Tim.  Divil a lunch!

Broadbent.  I’m sorry I couldn’t get back from Brighton in time to offer you some; but—­

Tim.  Not a word, sir, not a word.  Sure it’ll do tomorrow. 
Besides, I’m Irish, sir:  a poor ather, but a powerful dhrinker.