WENTWORTH, a barrister between forty, and fifty, dressed in rather a serious tweed suit, for a summer day, is on the sofa. THOMAS TODD, an immaculate young gentleman of twenty-five, is half-sitting on the gate-legged table with one foot on the ground and the other swinging. He is dressed in a brown flannel coat and white trousers, shoes and socks, and he has a putter in his hand indicative of his usual line of thought. The third occupant is the Butler, who, in answer to TOMMY'S ring, has appeared with the drinks.]
[The time is about four o'clock on a June afternoon.]
TOMMY (to the Butler). Thanks, James; just leave it here. [Exit Butler.] Whisky or lemonade, Wentworth?
WENTWORTH. Neither, thanks, Tommy.
TOMMY. Well, I will. (He pours himself out some lemonade and takes a long drink.) I should have thought you would have been thirsty, driving down from London a day like this. (He finishes his drink.) Let's see, where was I up to? The sixth, wasn't it?
WENTWORTH. The sixth, Tommy. (With resignation) Only twelve more.
TOMMY. Yes, that's right. Well, at the seventh I got an absolutely topping drive, but my approach was sliced a bit. However, I chipped on within about six feet, and was down in four. Gerald took it in three, but I had a stroke, so I halved. Then the eighth I told you about.
WENTWORTH. Was that where you fell into the pond?
TOMMY. No, no; you're thinking of the fifth, where I topped my drive into the pond.
WENTWORTH. I knew the pond came into it somewhere. I hoped--I mean I thought you fell in.
TOMMY. Look here, you _must_ remember the eighth, old chap; that was the one I did in one. Awful bit of luck.
WENTWORTH. Bit of luck for me too, Tommy.
TOMMY. Why?
WENTWORTH. Because now you can hurry on to the ninth.
TOMMY. I say, Wentworth, I thought you were keen on golf.
WENTWORTH. Only on my own.
TOMMY. You're a fraud. Here I've been absolutely wasting my precious time on you and--I suppose it wouldn't even interest you to hear that Gerald went round in seventy-two--five under bogey?
WENTWORTH. It would interest me much more to hear something about this girl he's engaged to.
TOMMY. Pamela Carey? Oh, she's an absolute ripper.
WENTWORTH. Yes, but you've said that of every girl you've met.
TOMMY. Well, dash it! you don't expect me to describe what she looks like, do you?
WENTWORTH. Well, no. I shall see that for myself directly. One gets introduced, you know, Tommy. It isn't as though I were meeting her at Charing Cross Station for the first time. But who is she?
TOMMY. Well, she was poor old Bob's friend originally. He brought her down here, but, of course, as soon as she saw Gerald--
WENTWORTH (quickly). Why, _poor_ old Bob?
TOMMY. I don't know; everybody seems to call him that. After all, he isn't quite like Gerald, is he?
WENTWORTH. Paderewski isn't quite like Tommy Todd, but I don't say "poor old Paderewski"--nor "poor old Tommy," if it comes to that.
TOMMY. Well, hang it, old man, there's a bit of a difference. Paderewski and I--well, I mean we don't compete.
WENTWORTH. Oh, I don't know. I daresay he's as rotten at golf as you, if the truth were really known.
TOMMY. No, but seriously, it's a bit different when you get two brothers like Gerald and Bob; and whatever the elder one does, the younger one does a jolly sight better. Now Paderewski and I--
WENTWORTH. Good heavens! I wish I hadn't started you on that. Get back to Bob. I thought Bob was on the Stock Exchange and Gerald in the Foreign Office. There can't be very much competition between them there.
TOMMY. Well, but there you are! Why isn't Bob in the Foreign Office and Gerald on the Stock Exchange? Why, because Gerald's the clever one, Gerald's the popular one, the good-looking one, the lucky one, the county cricketer, the plus three at golf--
WENTWORTH. Oh Lord! I thought you'd get golf into it. I suppose you were working up to your climax. Poor old Bob is about eighteen at golf, eh?
TOMMY. As a matter of fact, he's a very decent five. And there you are again. In any other family, Bob would be thought rather a nut. As it is--
WENTWORTH. As it is, Tommy, there are about thirty-five million people in England who've never played golf and who would recognize Bob, if they met him, for the decent English gentleman that he is.
TOMMY. I think you exaggerate, old chap. Golf's been getting awfully popular lately.
WENTWORTH. Personally I am very fond of Bob.
TOMMY. Oh, so am I. He's an absolute ripper. Still, _Gerald_, you know--I mean it's jolly bad luck on poor old Bob. Now Paderewski and I--
[Enter GERALD from the garden, a charming figure in a golfing coat and white flannels. Perhaps he is a little conscious of his charm; if so, it is hardly his fault, for hero-worship has been his lot from boyhood. He is now about twenty-six; everything that he has ever tried to do he has done well; and, if he is rather more unembarrassed than most of us when praised, his unself-consciousness is to a stranger as charming as the rest of him. With it all he is intensely reserved, with the result that those who refuse to succumb to his charm sometimes make the mistake of thinking that there is nothing behind it.]
GERALD. Hallo, Wentworth, how are you? All right?
WENTWORTH (getting up and shaking hands). Yes, thanks. How are you?
GERALD. Simply bursting. Have you seen your room and all that sort of thing?
WENTWORTH. Yes, thanks.
GERALD. Good. And Tommy's been entertaining you. (To TOMMY) Tommy, I interrupted your story about Paderewski. I don't think I know it. (To WENTWORTH) You must listen to this; it may be fairly new.
TOMMY. Don't be an ass. As a matter of fact, we were discussing something quite serious.
GERALD (to WENTWORTH). How long have you been here?
WENTWORTH. About ten minutes.
GERALD. And Tommy hasn't told you that he did the eighth in one this morning?
WENTWORTH.
