_It is about four o’clock in the afternoon. Hidden away in a big arm-chair sits NORAH FIELD, deep in a book. She is about twenty, wears a very short tweed skirt and very serviceable country shoes, has very decided opinions, and no hesitation at all about expressing them. RONNY DERWENT comes in. RONNY is also twenty, but younger than NORAH, and with no views on life other than that one’s hair ought to be kept well down. Without seeing NORAH, he rings the bell, and lights a cigarette while waiting for BENHAM to attend to him._ _Enter BENHAM_ * * * * * RONNY. Oh, I want a whisky and soda, please, Benham. BENHAM. Yes, sir. NORAH (_from her chair_). You don’t really want one, Ronny. RONNY. Good Lord! I didn’t know you were there. NORAH. Mr. Derwent won’t have a whisky and soda, Benham; you can get him a glass of water if he’s thirsty. RONNY. Look here, Norah—— (_She looks at him, and he ends up weakly_) Oh, very well. BENHAM. Will you have the glass of water, sir? RONNY (_sulkily_). No, thanks. BENHAM. Thank you, sir. [_BENHAM goes out._ RONNY. I didn’t know you were here, Norah. All the same, I don’t know why I shouldn’t have a drink if I want one. NORAH. I can’t stand the way you children are always wanting to drink. You’ve done nothing to make you thirsty. RONNY. If you knew a bit more, you’d know that it’s doing nothing that makes you thirsty. Talk to me and I’ll struggle on without it. What are you reading? NORAH. Nobody you’ve ever heard of, Ronny. A man called Meredith. RONNY. Oh! Any good? NORAH (_looking at him with a smile_). In his way. A different way from the _Winning Post_, you know. RONNY (_wanting to be fair_). Oh, well, there’s no accounting for tastes. Now, what do you think I found old man Chillingham reading last night? NORAH (_returning to her book_). Don’t know. RONNY. _Broxoppiana_. Ever heard of it? NORAH. I’ve seen it on the bookstalls. RONNY. _Broxoppiana_. That’s the name of the heroine, I suppose. And no better than she should be, if you ask _me_, because, when old man Chillingham saw I was looking, he slipped the book into his pocket and pretended to be very busy over another one. NORAH. And I suppose you looked over his shoulder and found out what that one was too? RONNY. Well, if you want to know, I didn’t. I knew what it was without looking over his shoulder. It was _The Science of Dry Fly Fishing_. Old man Chillingham trying to be a sportsman in his old age. NORAH (_shutting her book_). I think you had better have that whisky and soda, Ronny; at any rate, it will prevent you trying to discuss your host with another of his guests. RONNY. Rot, old girl. Jack’s my host. NORAH. This is not Jack’s house. RONNY. Then why did Iris write to me as if it was? “Dear Ronny, do come and spend a few days with us.—Yours sincerely, Iris Chillingham.” How’s that, eh?