[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.]

Wha’ I was goin’ tell you was—­I ’ve had a row with her. [He waves the reticule.] Have a drink, Jonessh ’d never have got in without you—­tha ’s why I ‘m giving you a drink.  Don’ care who knows I’ve scored her off.  Th’ cat! [He throws his feet up on the sofa.] Don’ you make a noise, whatever you do.  You pour out a drink—­you make yourself good long, long drink—­you take cigarette—­you take anything you like.  Sh’d never have got in without you. [Closing his eyes.] You’re a Tory—­you’re a Tory Socialist.  I’m Liberal myself—­have a drink—­I ’m an excel’nt chap.

[His head drops back.  He, smiling, falls asleep, and Jones stands looking at him; then, snatching up JACK’s glass, he drinks it off.  He picks the reticule from off Jack’s shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.]

Jones.  Been on the tiles and brought ’ome some of yer cat’s fur. [He stuffs it into JACK’s breast pocket.]

Jack. [Murmuring.] I ’ve scored you off!  You cat!

     [Jones looks around him furtively; he pours out whisky and
     drinks it.  From the silver box he takes a cigarette, puffs at
     it, and drinks more whisky.  There is no sobriety left in him.]

Jones.  Fat lot o’ things they’ve got ’ere! [He sees the crimson purse lying on the floor.] More cat’s fur.  Puss, puss! [He fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at Jack.] Calf!  Fat calf! [He sees his own presentment in a mirror.  Lifting his hands, with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at Jack, clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face.  Suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks it.  With cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets them.] I ’ll score you off too, that ’s wot I ’ll do!