armly] Miss Stokes, I appeal to you. Is it fair to
attribute responsibility to an unsigned journalist--for what he has
to say?

JAMES. [Sepulchrally] Yes, when you've got 'im in a nice dark
place.

MISS. S. James, be more respectful! We owe the Press a very great
debt.

JAMES. I'm goin' to pay it, Miss.

MISS S. [At a loss] Poulder, this is really most----

POULDER. I'm bound to keep the Press out of temptation, miss, till
I've laid it all before Lord William. 'Enry, take up the cooler.
James, watch 'im till we get clear, then bring on the rest of the
wine and lock up. Now, Miss.

MISS S. But where is Anne?

PRESS. Miss Stokes, as a lady----!

MISS S. I shall go and fetch Lord William!

POULDER. We will all go, Miss.

L. ANNE. [Rushing out from behind his legs] No--me!

[She eludes MISS STOKES and vanishes, followed by that
distracted but still well-mannered lady.]

POULDER. [Looking at his watch] 'Enry, leave the cooler, and take
up the wine; tell Thomas to lay it out; get the champagne into ice,
and 'ave Charles 'andy in the 'all in case some literary bounder
comes punctual.

[HENRY takes up the wine and goes.]

PRESS. [Above his head] I say, let me down. This is a bit
undignified, you know. My paper's a great organ.

POULDER. [After a moment's hesitation] Well--take 'im down, James;
he'll do some mischief among the bottles.

JAMES. 'Op off your base, and trust to me.

[THE PRESS slides off the bin's edge, is received by JAMES, and
not landed gently.]

POULDER. [Contemplating him] The incident's closed; no ill-feeling,
I hope?

PRESS. No-o.

POULDER. That's right. [Clearing his throat] While we're waitin'
for Lord William--if you're interested in wine--[Philosophically]
you can read the history of the times in this cellar. Take 'ock: [He
points to a bin] Not a bottle gone. German product, of course.
Now, that 'ock is 'sa 'avin' the time of its life--maturin' grandly;
got a wonderful chance. About the time we're bringin' ourselves to
drink it, we shall be havin' the next great war. With luck that 'ock
may lie there another quarter of a century, and a sweet pretty wine
it'll be. I only hope I may be here to drink it. Ah! [He shakes his
head]--but look at claret! Times are hard on claret. We're givin'
it an awful doin'. Now, there's a Ponty Canny [He points to a bin]--
if we weren't so 'opelessly allied with France, that wine