JACK. Sh! sh! sh! Don't you make a noise, whatever you do. Shu' the door, an' have a drink. [Very solemnly.] You helped me to open the door--I 've got nothin, for you. This is my house. My father's name's Barthwick; he's Member of Parliament--Liberal Member of Parliament: I've told you that before. Have a drink! [He pours out whisky and drinks it up.] I'm not drunk [Subsiding on a sofa.] Tha's all right. Wha's your name? My name's Barthwick, so's my father's; I'm a Liberal too--wha're you? JONES. [In a thick, sardonic voice.] I'm a bloomin' Conservative. My name's Jones! My wife works 'ere; she's the char; she works 'ere. JACK. Jones? [He laughs.] There's 'nother Jones at College with me. I'm not a Socialist myself; I'm a Liberal--there's ve--lill difference, because of the principles of the Lib--Liberal Party. We're all equal before the law--tha's rot, tha's silly. [Laughs.] Wha' was I about to say? Give me some whisky. [JONES gives him the whisky he desires, together with a squirt of syphon.] Wha' I was goin' tell you was--I 've had a row with her. [He waves the reticule.] Have a drink, Jonessh 'd never have got in without you--tha 's why I 'm giving you a drink. Don' care who knows I've scored her off. Th' cat! [He throws his feet up on the sofa.] Don' you make a noise, whatever you do. You pour out a drink--you make yourself good long, long drink--you take cigarette--you take anything you like. Sh'd never have got in without you. [Closing his eyes.] You're a Tory--you're a Tory Socialist. I'm Liberal myself--have a drink--I 'm an excel'nt chap. [His head drops back. He, smiling, falls asleep, and JONES stands looking at him; then, snatching up JACK's glass, he drinks it off. He picks the reticule from off JACK'S shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.] JONES. Been on the tiles and brought 'ome some of yer cat's fur. [He stuffs it into JACK's breast pocket.] JACK. [Murmuring.] I 've scored you off! You cat! [JONES looks around him furtively; he pours out whisky and drinks it. From the silver box he takes a cigarette, puffs at it, and drinks more whisky. There is no sobriety left in him.] JONES. Fat lot o' things they've got 'ere! [He sees the crimson purse lying on the floor.] More cat's fur. Puss, puss! [He fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at JACK.] Calf! Fat calf! [He sees his own presentment in a mirror. Lifting his hands, with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at JACK, clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face. Suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks it. With cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets them.] I 'll score you off too, that 's wot I 'll do!