(_Samuel Bamford is a wealthy shoddy manufacturer. He is a bachelor of forty, a bon viveur and a sportsman. His shrewd ruddy face shows above a white four-in-hand scarf, controlled by a horseshoe gold pin. He is well covered with flesh, but not yet as gross as he probably will be in a few years. His clothes are slightly sportsmanlike in cut and he wears spats. A noticeably heavy gold chain crosses his stomach. Nathaniel Alcorn is tall, spare and dark. His face is yellowish, with a drooping moustache. He wears a frock coat, and his prosperity, though evident, is less ostentatious than Bamford's._) Ste. Good-evening, gentlemen. (_To Janet._) Send Mr. Smithson up when he comes. No one else. Janet. Yes, sir. (_Exit Janet._) Alcorn (_briskly_). Evening, Verity. (_Bamford nods bluffly at Stephen._) Ste. Sit down. Any news? (_Stephen sits c. above table, Bamford r. and Alcorn l. of table._) Alcorn (_producing letter from his pocket_). Yes, my brother's sent this on. (_Hands letter to Stephen._) From Sir Charles' agent. He's abroad, Sir Charles. Bamford. Yes, confound him. How dare he be abroad when we want him? (_Stephen reads the letter._) Ste. (_looking up_). Dodging duns. (_To Bamford._) You've seen this? Bamford (_gloomily_). Yes. Alcorn (_equally gloomily_). It's not encouraging. Ste. (_returning the letter to Alcorn_). What isn't encouraging? Alcorn. Why, this. (_Reading the letter._) "Speaking for myself alone, I consider it extremely improbable that Sir Charles will consent to a sale of the Polygon to your company." (_Leaves letter on the table._) Ste. There's nothing to be afraid of there. Alcorn. I don't know so much about that. These land owning fellows know they're no good at business. They leave it to their agents, and if the agent writes like that, you can take it he knows. Ste. He knows all right. Sir Charles isn't a business man, but his agent is. If there's a chance of selling, that agent wants a top price; naturally he writes that way to bluff us into raising our offer. Bamford. You've a head on your shoulders, Verity. Ste. (_to Bamford_). It all depends on what you told us. If your information's correct, they'll be only too glad to sell. Alcorn. Yes. It's you that told us Sir Charles is in low water. Bamford. He's dropped a pot of money lately. It's a well known fact. I know one bookie that's taken ten thousand off him in the season, and he's not the only one. Alcorn (_sanctimoniously_). Deplorable wastrel. Ste. Eh? Oh, aye! (_Ironically._) Lamentable prodigality. Shocking extravagance, isn't it, Alcorn? But it suits our book. The faster he goes the pace the better for us, so you might as well be decently grateful instead of getting mealy mouthed over it. Bamford. Me and Alcorn were arguing coming along here what's to be done with the land. Alcorn. Aye, but as I told him, the first thing is to get possession of the land.