_Mrs. E._ (_smiling indulgently and rising_). Well, dear, of course if it's going to be a _funny_ play, I know you would like to be alone. (_Pausing at the open door._) And will you read it to us after dinner? You know the Willoughby-Smythes will be here, and Mr. and Mrs. Vallance from the Bank are coming in afterwards. I am sure they would like to hear it. _Ralph_ (_irritably_). The play isn't written yet. (_Plaintively._) _Do_ go! _Mrs. E._ (_sweetly_). I'm sure you'd like to be alone. Don't keep dinner waiting. [_Beams on him affectionately and exits. Ralph gives a sigh of relief, rumples his hair, and then writes for a few minutes. Then pauses, leans back, biting his pencil, when the door is flung open, and a very good imitation of a whirlwind bursts into the room. The whirlwind is a robust person of forty, he has a large round red face fringed with sandy whiskers, and is one mass of health and happiness. He wears Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, gaiters and thick boots, and carries a golfing bag. He slaps Ralph heartily on the back, and laughs boisterously. Ralph collapses._ _Tom_ (_heartily_). How are you? Going strong--what? Asked the wife for you, and she told me you were in here writing a play. Rippin' idea--what? _Ralph_ (_worried, but striving to be pleasant and polite_). What do you want, old chap? _Tom_ (_cheerfully_). Nothin' particular, only just to see how you were gettin' on--what? Do you good to have half an hour out, just a few holes--golf--what? _Ralph_ (_with great self-restraint_). Thanks, old man. Not now. You don't mind my asking you to leave me to myself a bit? _Tom_ (_amiably rising and picking up his bag_). All right, old chap, you know best--what? Thought I'd just look in--hey?--what? Well, I'm off. (_Goes to door, thinks for a moment, and then turns round._) I say, I know Thingummy's acting manager. If I can put in a word about your play--hey?--what?