The Foundations | Page 7

the Press on the Public--an' leave
just a million over! Hup!
POULDER. 'Enry, give 'im an 'and.
[THE PRESS mounts, assisted by JAMES and HENRY.]
L. ANNE. [Ecstatic] It's lovely!
POULDER. [Nervously] Mind the '87! Mind!
JAMES. Mind your feet in Mr. Poulder's favourite wine!
[A WOMAN'S voice is heard, as from the depths of a cave, calling
"Anne! Anne!"]
L. ANNE. [Aghast] Miss Stokes--I must hide!
[She gets behind POULDER. The three Servants achieve dignified
positions in front of the bins. The voice comes nearer. THE PRESS sits
dangling his feet, grinning. MISS STOKES appears. She is woman of
forty-five and terribly good manners. Her greyish hair is rolled back off
her forehead. She is in a high evening dress, and in the dim light
radiates a startled composure.]
MISS STOKES. Poulder, where is Miss Anne?
[ANNE lays hold of the backs of his legs.]
POULDER. [Wincing] I am not in a position to inform you, Miss.
MISS S. They told me she was down here. And what is all this about a

bomb?
POULDER. [Lifting his hand in a calming manner] The crisis is past;
we have it in ice, Miss. 'Enry, show Miss Stokes! [HENRY indicates
the cooler.]
MISS S. Good gracious! Does Lord William know?
POULDER. Not at present, Miss.
MISS S. But he ought to, at once.
POULDER. We 'ave 'ad complications.
MISS S. [Catching sight of the legs of THE PRESS] Dear me! What
are those?
JAMES. [Gloomily] The complications.
[MISS STOKES pins up her glasses and stares at them.]
PRESS. [Cheerfully] Miss Stokes, would you kindly tell Lord William
I'm here from the Press, and would like to speak to him?
MISS S. But--er--why are you up there?
JAMES. 'E got up out o' remorse, Miss.
MISS S. What do you mean, James?
PRESS. [Warmly] 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
would have a reasonable future. As it is--none! We drink it up and up;
not more than sixty dozen left. And where's its equal to come from for
a dinner wine--ah! I ask you? On the other hand, port is steady; made in
a little country, all but the cobwebs and the old boot flavour;
guaranteed by the British Nary; we may 'ope for the best with port. Do
you drink it?
PRESS. When I get the chance.
POULDER. Ah!