) 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.
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