MALISE. Yes, now for you.
He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old
portfolio. But the door is again timidly pushed open, and
HAYWOOD reappears.
MALISE. Yes, Mr. Haywood?
HAYWOOD. About that little matter, sir. If--if it's any convenience
to you--I've--thought of a place where I could----
MALISE. Read them? You'll enjoy them thoroughly.
HAYWOOD. No, sir, no! Where I can dispose of them.
MALISE. [Holding out the volumes] It might be as well. [HAYWOOD
takes the books gingerly] I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a
classic.
HAYWOOD. Oh, indeed--yes, sir. In the event of there being any----
MALISE. Anything over? Carry it to my credit. Your bill--[He
hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt. Good evening!
HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening
paper, fumbles out. "Good evenin', sir!" and departs. MALISE
again takes up the sheets of MS. and cons a sentence over to
himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY.
MALISE. "Man of the world--good form your god! Poor buttoned-up
philosopher" [the Boy shifts his feet] "inbred to the point of
cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the Boy
breathes heavily]--you are the slave of facts!"
[There is a knock on the door]
MALISE. Who is it?
The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there.
HUNTINGDON. I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?
[MALISE bows with ironical hostility]
HUNTINGDON.
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