remarkable services?

CARVE. What salary?

CYRUS. What salary?

CARVE. Eighty pounds a year.

CYRUS. When were you last paid?

CARVE. I--I----

CYRUS. When were you last paid?

CARVE. The day before yesterday.

CYRUS. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.)
Here's seven pounds--a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more
than a month's wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now. (Holding
out money.)

CARVE. But listen----

CYRUS. (Commandingly.) Take it.

(CARVE obeys.)

Pack up and be out of this house within an hour.

CARVE. I----

CYRUS. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers and
so on in England or somewhere on the Continent--what bank?

CARVE. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank.

CYRUS. Where did he keep them then?

CARVE. He kept them himself.

CYRUS. What--travelling?

CARVE. Yes. Why not?

CYRUS. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the business man's mild
scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage?

CARVE. Mine.

CYRUS. All of it?

CARVE. That is----

CYRUS. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.

CARVE. His. (Angrily, as CYRUS roughly handles a box.) Now then,
mind what you're about! Those are etching things.

CYRUS. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?

CARVE. That's a typewriter.

CYRUS. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines.

CARVE. That was--his servant's.

CYRUS. Yours, you mean?

CARVE. Yes, I mean mine.

CYRUS. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter for?

CARVE. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?

CYRUS. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If
you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the
front-door steps and your things after you.

CARVE. I've got something to tell you----

CYRUS. Silence, and answer my questions! Are his papers in this dispatch
box?

CARVE. Yes.

CYRUS. Where are his keys?

CARVE. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here.

CYRUS. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys?

CARVE. Yes.

CYRUS. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say!

(CARVE sits down negligently and smiles.)

CYRUS. (As he is examining papers in box.) What are you laughing at?

CARVE. I'm not laughing. I'm smiling. (Rising and looking curiously at
box.) There's nothing there except lists of securities and pictures and
a few oddm