Poulder.  That’s right. [Clearing his throat] While we’re waitin’ for Lord William—­if you’re interested in wine—­[Philosophically] you can read the history of the times in this cellar.  Take ’ock:  [He points to a bin] Not a bottle gone.  German product, of course.  Now, that ’ock is ’sa ‘avin’ the time of its life—­maturin’ grandly; got a wonderful chance.  About the time we’re bringin’ ourselves to drink it, we shall be havin’ the next great war.  With luck that ’ock may lie there another quarter of a century, and a sweet pretty wine it’ll be.  I only hope I may be here to drink it.  Ah! [He shakes his head]—­but look at claret!  Times are hard on claret.  We’re givin’ it an awful doin’.  Now, there’s a Ponty Canny [He points to a bin]- if we weren’t so ’opelessly allied with France, that wine would have a reasonable future.  As it is—­none!  We drink it up and up; not more than sixty dozen left.  And where’s its equal to come from for a dinner wine—­ah!  I ask you?  On the other hand, port is steady; made in a little country, all but the cobwebs and the old boot flavour; guaranteed by the British Nary; we may ’ope for the best with port.  Do you drink it?

Press.  When I get the chance.

Poulder.  Ah! [Clears his throat] I’ve often wanted to ask:  What do they pay you—­if it’s not indelicate?

[The press shrugs his shoulders.]

Can you do it at the money?

[The press shakes his head.] Still—­it’s an easy life!  I’ve regretted sometimes that I didn’t have a shot at it myself; influencin’ other people without disclosin’ your identity—­something very attractive about that. [Lowering his voice] Between man and man, now-what do you think of the situation of the country—­these processions of the unemployed—­the Red Flag an’ the Marsillaisy in the streets—­all this talk about an upheaval?

Press.  Well, speaking as a Socialist——­

Poulder. [Astounded] Why; I thought your paper was Tory!

Press.  So it is.  That’s nothing!

Poulder. [Open-mouthed] Dear me! [Pointing to the bomb] Do you really think there’s something in this?

James. [Sepulchrally] ’Igh explosive.

Press. [Taking out his note-book] Too much, anyway, to let it drop.

     [A pleasant voice calls “Poulder!  Hallo!".]

Poulder. [Forming a trumpet with his hand] Me Lord!

[As lord William appears, James, overcome by reminiscences; salutes, and is mechanically answered.  Lord William has “charm.”  His hair and moustache are crisp and just beginning to grizzle.  His bearing is free, easy, and only faintly armoured.  He will go far to meet you any day.  He is in full evening dress.]

Lord W. [Cheerfully] I say, Poulder, what have you and James been doing to the Press?  Liberty of the Press—­it isn’t what it was, but there is a limit.  Where is he?