OLIVER. No, he's a special type.
GERALD. Ineffectual, don't you think?
ANABEL. How pleased you are, Gerald! How pleased you are with
yourself! You love the turn with him.
GERALD. It's rather stimulating, you know.
ANABEL. It oughtn't to be, then.
OLIVER. He's you Judas, and you love him.
GERALD. Nothing so deep. He's just a sort of AEolian harp that
sings to the temper of the wind. I find him amusing.
ANABEL. I think it's boring.
OLIVER. And I think it's nasty.
GERALD. I believe you're both jealous of him. What do you think of
the working man, Oliver?
OLIVER. It seems to me he's in nearly as bad a way as the British
employer: he's nearly as much beside the point.
GERALD. What point?
OLIVER. Oh, just life.
GERALD. That's too vague, my boy. Do you think they'll ever make a
bust-up?
OLIVER. I can't tell. I don't see any good in it, if they do.
GERALD. It might clear the way--and it might block the way for ever:
depends what comes through. But, sincerely, I don't think they've
got it in them.
ANABEL. They may have something better.
GERALD. That suggestion doesn't interest me, Anabel. Ah, well, we
shall see what we shall see. Have a whisky and soda with me, Oliver,
and let the troubled course of this evening run to a smooth close.
It's quite like old times. Aren't you smoking, Anabel?
ANABEL.
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