VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days. You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor—and father hates poor people.
RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!
VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual instability.
RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to him and—) Oh, Lord, look out!
VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?
RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW comes in.)
(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly is.)
CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at breakfasts?
CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?