With his back to them, on a sofa with
its back to them, is_ GEORGE FARRANT, _planted with his knees apart, his
hands clasped, his head bent; very glum. And sometimes_ HORSHAM _glances at
the door, as if waiting for it to open. Then his gaze will travel back, up
the long shiny black piano, with a volume of the Well Tempered Clavichord
open on its desk, to where_ CANTELUPE _is perched uncomfortably on the
bench; paler than ever; more self-contained than ever, looking, to one who
knows him as well as Horsham does, a little dangerous. So he returns to
contemplation of the ceiling or the carpet. They wait there as men wait who
have said all they want to say upon an unpleasant subject and yet cannot
dismiss it. At last_ FARRANT _breaks the silence._
FARRANT. What time did you ask him to come, Horsham?
HORSHAM. Eh ... O'Connell? I didn't ask him directly. What time did you say,
Wedgecroft?
WEDGECROFT. Any time after half past ten, I told him.
FARRANT. [_Grumbling._] It's a quarter to eleven. Doesn't Blackborough mean
to turn up at all?
HORSHAM. He was out of town ... my note had to be sent after him. I couldn't
wire, you see.
FARRANT. No.
CANTELUPE. It was by the merest chance your man caught me, Cyril. I was
taking the ten fifteen to Tonbridge and happened to go to James Street first
for some papers.
_The conversation flags again._
CANTELUPE.
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