_There is no solid furniture except a sideboard which stands against the wall between the vestibule door and the pavilion, a small writing table with a blotter, a rack for telegram forms and stationery, and a wastepaper basket, standing out in the hall near the sideboard, and a lady's worktable, with two chairs at it, towards the other side of the lounge. The writing table has also two chairs at it. On the sideboard there is a tantalus, liqueur bottles, a syphon, a glass jug of lemonade, tumblers, and every convenience for casual drinking. Also a plate of sponge cakes, and a highly ornate punchbowl in the same style as the keramic display in the pavilion. Wicker chairs and little bamboo tables with ash trays and boxes of matches on them are scattered in all directions. In the pavilion, which is flooded with sunshine, is the elaborate patent swing seat and awning in which Johnny reclines with his novel. There are two wicker chairs right and left of him._ _Bentley Summerhays, one of those smallish, thinskinned youths, who from 17 to 70 retain unaltered the mental airs of the later and the physical appearance of the earlier age, appears in the garden and comes through the glass door into the pavilion. He is unmistakably a grade above Johnny socially; and though he looks sensitive enough, his assurance and his high voice are a little exasperating._ JOHNNY. Hallo! Wheres your luggage? BENTLEY. I left it at the station. Ive walked up from Haslemere. _[He goes to the hat stand and hangs up his hat]._ JOHNNY _[shortly]_ Oh! And who's to fetch it? BENTLEY. Dont know. Dont care. Providence, probably. If not, your mother will have it fetched. JOHNNY. Not her business, exactly, is it? BENTLEY. _[returning to the pavilion]_ Of course not. Thats why one loves her for doing it. Look here: chuck away your silly week-end novel, and talk to a chap. After a week in that filthy office my brain is simply blue-mouldy. Lets argue about something intellectual. _[He throws himself into the wicker chair on Johnny's right]._ JOHNNY. _[straightening up in the swing with a yell of protest]_ No. Now seriously, Bunny, Ive come down here to have a pleasant week-end; and I'm not going to stand your confounded arguments. If you want to argue, get out of this and go over to the Congregationalist minister's. He's a nailer at arguing. He likes it. BENTLEY. You cant argue with a person when his livelihood depends on his not letting you convert him. And would you mind not calling me Bunny. My name is Bentley Summerhays, which you please. JOHNNY. Whats the matter with Bunny? BENTLEY. It puts me in a false position. Have you ever considered the fact that I was an afterthought? JOHNNY. An afterthought? What do you mean by that? BENTLEY. I-- JOHNNY. No, stop: I dont want to know. It's only a dodge to start an argument.