Poulder.  Not at present, Miss.

Miss S. But he ought to, at once.

Poulder.  We ’ave ’ad complications.

Miss S. [Catching sight of the legs of the press] Dear me!  What are those?

James. [Gloomily] The complications.

     [Miss Stokes pins up her glasses and stares at them.]

Press. [Cheerfully] Miss Stokes, would you kindly tell Lord William
I’m here from the Press, and would like to speak to him?

Miss S. But—­er—­why are you up there?

James.  ‘E got up out o’ remorse, Miss.

Miss S. What do you mean, James?

Press. [Warmly] Miss Stokes, I appeal to you.  Is it fair to attribute responsibility to an unsigned journalist—­for what he has to say?

James. [Sepulchrally] Yes, when you’ve got ’im in a nice dark place.

Miss.  S. James, be more respectful!  We owe the Press a very great debt.

James.  I’m goin’ to pay it, Miss.

Miss S. [At a loss] Poulder, this is really most——­

Poulder.  I’m bound to keep the Press out of temptation, miss, till I’ve laid it all before Lord William.  ’Enry, take up the cooler.  James, watch ’im till we get clear, then bring on the rest of the wine and lock up.  Now, Miss.

Miss S. But where is Anne?

Press.  Miss Stokes, as a lady——!

Miss S. I shall go and fetch Lord William!

Poulder.  We will all go, Miss.

L. Anne. [Rushing out from behind his legs] No—­me!

     [She eludes miss Stokes and vanishes, followed by that
     distracted but still well-mannered lady.]

Poulder. [Looking at his watch] ’Enry, leave the cooler, and take up the wine; tell Thomas to lay it out; get the champagne into ice, and ’ave Charles ’andy in the ’all in case some literary bounder comes punctual.

     [Henry takes up the wine and goes.]

Press. [Above his head] I say, let me down.  This is a bit undignified, you know.  My paper’s a great organ.

Poulder. [After a moment’s hesitation] Well—­take ’im down, James; he’ll do some mischief among the bottles.

James.  ’Op off your base, and trust to me.

     [The, press slides off the bin’s edge, is received by James, and
     not landed gently.]

Poulder. [Contemplating him] The incident’s closed; no ill-feeling, I hope?

Press.  No-o.