CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke.
RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me.
CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships.
RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
[Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.]
MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all right.
RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.
MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable). Yes—er—h'rm—Richard—er—what are your—er—plans?
RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?