TARVER. That's kind of her. My throat's awful. Where's the spray? (PHYLLIS _runs up and around to_ R. _of sofa, getting spray_. TARVER _sits on stool below sofa and_ PHYLLIS _comes down to_ R. _of him_.) PHYLLIS. (_Spraying his throat_) Never mind, Bobby, there are only ten days more. TARVER. (_Chokes_) I don't think I can last out the ten days. When that bench broke last night in the middle of my speech, I really thought it was my nervous system gone at last. GRICE. (_Thunderously. Coming_ C.) Tarver! TARVER. (_Jumps_) Oh, Admiral, don't speak to me like that or I shall cry. (PHYLLIS _sits on foot of sofa, her arm on_ TARVER'S _shoulder_.) GRICE, You made a mistake last night. Canada is not to the north of Alaska. TARVER. Did I say it was? (PHYLLIS _shakes her head. Looks toward_ PHYLLIS) Oh, how awful! GRICE. Tarver, you are dining with me to-night. TARVER. Yes, sir. GRICE. Bring your Atlas. We will go slowly through the countries of the world in my study afterwards. PHYLLIS. (_Rises quickly_) Oh, but you can't, Admiral. There's the Philharmonic concert after your dinner party, and we all have to go to it. TARVER. Yes, and my _opponent_ is going to be there. PHYLLIS. If Bobby were late, it would produce a bad impression. GRICE. Then come before dinner. TARVER. (_Rising_) But, Admiral, I haven't written a word of my election speech yet except "Gentlemen" and that's a _lie_. GRICE. (_Threateningly_) Tarver! Wilson is not the only elector in the Lumley division who is wavering. PHYLLIS. (_Starts_) Oh, Admiral! FARADAY. (_Seated_ L.) You, Grice, you? PHYLLIS. Oh, you couldn't vote _against Bobby!_ GRICE. Perhaps not, but I might try. TARVER. Oh! I'll bring my Atlas! (_Speaks despairingly. Turns up_ R., _looking for tonic_.) PHYLLIS. (_Running to_ ADMIRAL) Oh, yes, Bobby will be delighted to bring his Atlas. GRICE. Bobby will be delighted to _take away_ his Atlas. (MARTIN _enters_ L.I _with copy of the "London Times" and a small folded periodical on salver_.) Tarver, geography, eight o'clock sharp. Dinner, eight fifteen. (_Turns to table_.) MARTIN. The Times, sir. FARADAY. At last. GRICE. Ah, the Times! AUNT IDA. (_Rising in alarm and backing up stage from chair_. GRICE _takes her place in chair_.) Oh, the Times, the Times! TARVER. Oh, Phyllis, where is that bottle of Guy's tonic? PHYLLIS. It is out here, Bobby. (_Exit in the morning room_.) TARVER. (_Following her_) Thanks awfully. I needed it badly.