Wheeler.  You mean when he’s drunk, the beauty.

Mrs. Jones.  Yes. [Without change of voice] There’s the young gentleman asleep on the sofa.

     [They both look silently at Jack.]

Mrs. Jones. [At last, in her soft voice.] He does n’t look quite himself.

Wheeler.  He’s a young limb, that’s what he is.  It ’s my belief he was tipsy last night, like your husband.  It ’s another kind of bein’ out of work that sets him to drink.  I ’ll go and tell Marlow.  This is his job.

     [She goes.]

     [Mrs. Jones, upon her knees, begins a gentle sweeping.]

Jack. [Waking.] Who’s there?  What is it?

Mrs. Jones.  It’s me, sir, Mrs. Jones.

Jack. [Sitting up and looking round.] Where is it—­what—­what time is it?

Mrs. Jones.  It’s getting on for nine o’clock, sir.

Jack.  For nine!  Why—­what! [Rising, and loosening his tongue; putting hands to his head, and staring hard at Mrs. Jones.] Look here, you, Mrs.——­Mrs. Jones—­don’t you say you caught me asleep here.

Mrs. Jones.  No, sir, of course I won’t sir.

Jack.  It’s quite an accident; I don’t know how it happened.  I must have forgotten to go to bed.  It’s a queer thing.  I ’ve got a most beastly headache.  Mind you don’t say anything, Mrs. Jones.

[Goes out and passes Marlow in the doorway.  Marlow is young and quiet; he is cleanshaven, and his hair is brushed high from his forehead in a coxcomb.  Incidentally a butler, he is first a man.  He looks at Mrs. Jones, and smiles a private smile.]

Marlow.  Not the first time, and won’t be the last.  Looked a bit dicky, eh, Mrs. Jones?

Mrs. Jones.  He did n’t look quite himself.  Of course I did n’t take notice.

Marlow.  You’re used to them.  How’s your old man?

Mrs. Jones. [Softly as throughout.] Well, he was very bad last night; he did n’t seem to know what he was about.  He was very late, and he was most abusive.  But now, of course, he’s asleep.

Marlow.  That’s his way of finding a job, eh?

Mrs. Jones.  As a rule, Mr. Marlow, he goes out early every morning looking for work, and sometimes he comes in fit to drop—­and of course I can’t say he does n’t try to get it, because he does.  Trade’s very bad. [She stands quite still, her fan and brush before her, at the beginning and the end of long vistas of experience, traversing them with her impersonal eye.] But he’s not a good husband to me—­last night he hit me, and he was so dreadfully abusive.

Marlow.  Bank ’oliday, eh!  He ’s too fond of the “Goat and Bells,” that’s what’s the matter with him.  I see him at the corner late every night.  He hangs about.