_Verity's dining-room as Act II a week later. Bamford and Stephen enter from r. Stephen just pocketing his watch._
Stephen. You're a bit early for the meeting, Sam. (_Crosses to c. above table._)
Bamford. Yes; fact is, I wanted a word with you alone about that other matter.
Bam. (_r. c._). Aye. I'm a bit uneasy about it, Verity.
Ste. Natural enough, I dare say. When a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love it churns up his inside a bit.
Bam. 'Tisn't that. I'm not a young man. (_Crosses l._)
Ste. You're young enough for all marriageable purposes.
Bam. I'm doubtful if I'm the right man to make that girl happy.
Ste. You're going to be Mayor, aren't you?
Ste. And as much dressing as she's a mind to? Bam. Yes.
Ste. (_sits above table_). Then what's troubling you? What else does any female woman want?
Bam. (_sits l. of table_). Eh! I dunno! They're a grasping lot, women..
Ste. Damn you, Sam, do you fancy my girl's not been well brought up? You're as good as telling me she's not good enough for you.
Bam. Nay, I'm not; I'm only thinking I may not be good enough for her.
Ste. I'm best judge of that. The thing's settled. We said it once, you and I, and we're not weathervanes.
Bam. (_resignedly_). Yes, I suppose it's settled.
(_Maid announces Mr. Smithson. Enter Smithson, Maid exit._)
Smiths. Good evening, Verity. (_Shakes hands._) Evening, Bamford.
Ste. (_to Smithson_). Seen anything of Alcorn? Smiths. Yes. He's gone round to the Post Office on his way here to see if a letter's been forwarded from the London office.
(_They sit at table. Stephen head, Smithson r. and Bamford l._)
Ste. I've been paying a call--afternoon call on some friends of mine in the Polygon.
Ste. Take it easy, Sam. (_Chuckles._) Aye, they wanted the Council to petition Sir Charles not to sell. Tried to get me to do it for 'em.
Ste. Well, we'd a little talk, Mr. Vining and I, and we come to a sort of a compromise.
Bam. Compromise! Verity? I don't like that word.
Ste. Finish was, they've written to Sir Charles asking him to sell the town their grass plat--tennis courts and what-not--if he'll leave their houses alone.
Bam. Verity, I don't like this. Ask me, it sounds like treachery to the company.
Ste. Treachery be hanged. I drafted the letter myself.