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Not for the world. But it's a little confusing, mixing up business with pleasure. Imogen, let Lady Effie and Mrs. Gayl.u.s.tre hear you play your lovely harp, but don't let the nasty thing hurt your fingers. Brooke, I want to speak to you.
[LADY EUPHEMIA and IMOGEN stroll out, followed by MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.]
SIR JULIAN TWOMBLEY.
[Mournfully.] I'll dress now, Katherine, and go down.
LADY TWOMBLEY.
Lor', pa, don't speak as if you were thinking of our tomb at Kensal Green.
SIR JULIAN TWOMBLEY.
Competent authorities a.s.sure me there is quiet to be found in the tomb; I antic.i.p.ate nothing of that kind where I am going to-night.
[He goes out. LADY TWOMBLEY watches his going, then turns to BROOKE sharply.]
LADY TWOMBLEY.
Well, have you got it?
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
My--er----
LADY TWOMBLEY.
Your skeddle.
[BROOKE hands his schedule to LADY TWOMBLEY.]
LADY TWOMBLEY.
There's a dear boy. [She turns over the leaves, gradually her face a.s.sumes a look of horror.] "Total, three thousand----!"
[She folds the schedule, puts it in her pocket, and faces BROOKE fiercely with her hands clenched.]
LADY TWOMBLEY.
You imp! [She boxes his right ear soundly.]
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
Mater!
LADY TWOMBLEY.
You villain! [She boxes his left ear.]
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
Don't, Mater!
LADY TWOMBLEY.
Three thousand pounds! Three thousand times I wish you had never been born! I--I---- [She breaks down, puts her arms round Brooke's neck, and cries.] Oh, Brooke, my dear, forgive your poor mother's vile temper.
I've made my Brooke's head ache. Oh, my gracious!
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
Don't fret, Mater. If you're run rather low at Scott's----
LADY TWOMBLEY.
Scott's, Brooke! When I creep into that bank now and ask for my pa.s.s-book I have to hold on to the edge of the counter, I feel so sick and giddy.
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
Oh, very well then, Mater, I can wait. Mr. Nazareth, of Burlington Street, will accommodate me for a time; a couple of bills, you know, at three and six months--what?
LADY TWOMBLEY.
[Speaking in a whisper.] Brooky, Brooky, I've thought of those dreadful things for myself.
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
For yourself, Mater! Why, you can always get the right side of pa.
LADY TWOMBLEY.
Brooke! Brooky, I must tell you. Just now poor pa has no right side.
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
Mater!
LADY TWOMBLEY.
It's as much as the dear man can do to get a rattle out of his keys. For a long time, Brooke, we've all been outrunning the constable.
BROOKE TWOMBLEY.
Really, Mater, I ought to have been consulted before.
LADY TWOMBLEY.
I know, Brooke, but I couldn't face my boy's reproaches.
