OLIVIA (laughing hysterically). Oh, Mr. Pim, you—oh, what a husband to have—oh, I—(But that is all she can say for the moment.)
LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so unhealthy for you. (To PIM) So he really is dead this time?
MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his throat.
GEORGE (trying to realise it). Dead!
OLIVIA (struggling with her laughter). I think you must excuse me, Mr. Pim—I can never thank you enough—a herring—there's something about a herring—morality depends on such little things—George, you—(Shaking her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries out of the room.)
MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me!
GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that the man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead?
MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes—didn't I say Telworthy? This man I was telling you about—
GEORGE. He's dead?
MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles.