CRAMPTON (sarcastically). He means that you are getting on very nicely in spite of the presence of your father. Do I take your point rightly, Mr. McComas? McCOMAS (disconcerted). No, no. I only said "after all" to round off the sentence. I--er--er--er--- WAITER (tactfully). Turbot, sir? McCOMAS (intensely grateful for the interruption). Thank you, waiter: thank you. WAITER (sotto voce). Don't mention it, sir. (He returns to the service table.) CRAMPTON (to Phil). Have you thought of choosing a profession yet? PHILIP. I am keeping my mind open on that subject. William! WAITER. Yes, sir. PHILIP. How long do you think it would take me to learn to be a really smart waiter? WAITER. Can't be learnt, sir. It's in the character, sir. (Confidentially to Valentine, who is looking about for something.) Bread for the lady, sir? yes, sir. (He serves bread to Gloria, and resumes at his former pitch.) Very few are born to it, sir. PHILIP. You don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself, have you? WAITER. Yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (To Gloria, again dropping his voice.) A little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the middle of the day. GLORIA. No, thank you. (The fish plates are removed.) DOLLY. Is your son a waiter, too, William? WAITER (serving Gloria with fowl). Oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous. He's at the Bar. McCOMAS (patronizingly). A potman, eh? WAITER (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment softened by time). No, sir: the other bar--your profession, sir. A Q.C., sir. McCOMAS (embarrassed). I'm sure I beg your pardon. WAITER. Not at all, sir. Very natural mistake, I'm sure, sir. I've often wished he was a potman, sir. Would have been off my hands ever so much sooner, sir. (Aside to Valentine, who is again in difficulties.) Salt at your elbow, sir. (Resuming.) Yes, sir: had to support him until he was thirty-seven, sir. But doing well now, sir: very satisfactory indeed, sir. Nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. McCOMAS. Democracy, Crampton!--modern democracy! WAITER (calmly). No, sir, not democracy: only education, sir. Scholarships, sir. Cambridge Local, sir. Sidney Sussex College, sir. (Dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) Stone ginger, miss? Right, miss. (To McComas.) Very good thing for him, sir: he never had any turn for real work, sir. (He goes into the hotel, leaving the company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.) VALENTINE. Which of us dare give that man an order again! DOLLY. I hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer. CRAMPTON (doggedly). While he's a waiter it's his business to wait. If you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held his tongue. DOLLY. What a loss that would have been! Perhaps he'll give us an introduction to his son and get us into London society. (The waiter reappears with the ginger-beer.) CRAMPTON (growling contemptuously). London society! London society!! You're not fit for any society, child.