Mayor.  What do you say, ’Arris?

Harris.  Mr Chantrey’s a public school and University man, Sir; he’s not what I call ambitious.

Builder.  Nor am I, Harris.

Harris.  No, sir; of course you’ve a high sense of duty.  Mr Chantrey’s rather dilettante.

Mayor.  We want a solid man.

Builder.  I’m very busy, you know, Mayor.

Mayor.  But you’ve got all the qualifications—­big business, family man, live in the town, church-goer, experience on the Council and the Bench.  Better say “yes,” Builder.

Builder.  It’s a lot of extra work.  I don’t take things up lightly.

Mayor.  Dangerous times, these.  Authority questioned all over the place.  We want a man that feels his responsibilities, and we think we’ve got him in you.

Builder.  Very good of you, Mayor.  I don’t know, I’m sure.  I must think of the good of the town.

Harris.  I shouldn’t worry about that, sir.

Mayor.  The name John Builder carries weight.  You’re looked up to as a man who can manage his own affairs.  Madam and the young ladies well?

Builder.  First-rate.

Mayor. [Rises] That’s right.  Well, if you’d like to talk it over with Chantrey to-morrow.  With all this extremism, we want a man of principle and common sense.

Harris.  We want a man that’ll grasp the nettle, sir—­and that’s you.

Builder.  Hm!  I’ve got a temper, you know.

Mayor. [Chuckling] We do—­we do!  You’ll say “yes,” I see.  No false modesty!  Come along, ’Arris, we must go.

Builder.  Well, Mayor, I’ll think it over, and let you have an answer.  You know my faults, and you know my qualities, such as they are.  I’m just a plain Englishman.

Mayor.  We don’t want anything better than that.  I always say the great point about an Englishman is that he’s got bottom; you may knock him off his pins, but you find him on ’em again before you can say “Jack Robinson.”  He may have his moments of aberration, but he’s a sticker.  Morning, Builder, morning!  Hope you’ll say “yes.”

     He shakes hands and goes out, followed by Harris.

When the door is dosed builder stands a moment quite still with a gratified smile on his face; then turns and scrutinises himself in the glass over the hearth.  While he is doing so the door from the dining-room is opened quietly and Camille comes in.  Builder, suddenly seeing her reflected in the mirror, turns.

Builder.  What is it, Camille?

Camille.  Madame send me for a letter she say you have, Monsieur, from the dyer and cleaner, with a bill.

Builder. [Feeling in his pockets] Yes—­no.  It’s on the table.