BERTLEY. But, my dear WELLWYN, that is stealing.
WELLWYN. We all have our discrepancies, Vicar.
ANN. Daddy! Discrepancies!
WELLWYN. Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson's an
Individualist, but as regards liquids he's a Socialist . . . or
'vice versa', according to taste.
BERTLEY. No, no, we mustn't joke about it. [Gravely.] I do think
he should be spoken to.
WELLWYN. Yes, but not by me.
BERTLEY. Surely you're the proper person.
WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] It was my rum, Vicar. Look so
personal.
[There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.]
WELLWYN. Isn't that the Professor's knock?
[While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens
it. There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved
man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking
off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead,
which completely dominates all that comes below it.]
WELLWYN. Come in, Professor! So awfully good of you! You know
Canon Bentley, I think?
CALWAY. Ah! How d'you do?
WELLWYN. Your opinion will be invaluable, Professor.
ANN. Tea, Professor Calway?
[They have assembled round the tea table.]
CALWAY. Thank you; no tea; milk.
WELLWYN. Rum?
[He pours rum into CALWAY's milk.]
CALWAY. A little-thanks! [Turning to ANN.] You were going to show
me some one you're trying to rescue, or something, I think.
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