BETTY. Too soon! He'd have strangled us. Did you ever see such a tiger?
WALTER. [Chuckling hugely.] He didn't give the lover much chance to stand up to him, did he?
BETTY. And wasn't he original! Dog, hound, villain, traitor!
WALTER. To say nothing of Jezebel! Though, between ourselves, I think he meant Messalina!
BETTY. And I was to go into the street. But he did let me fill my bag!
WALTER. I think the playwrights come out on top, I do indeed. [He goes to HECTOR, and stands to left of him.] Hector, old chap, here's the letter!
BETTY. [Going to the other side of HECTOR, and dropping a low curtsey.] And please, Mr. Husband, was it to be a big bag, or a small bag, and might I have taken the silver teapot?
[HECTOR has been standing there stupid, dazed, dumbfounded, too bewildered for his mind to act or thoughts to come to him; he suddenly bursts into a roar of Titanic, overwhelming laughter. He laughs, and laughs, staggers to the sofa, falls on it, rocks and roars till the tears roll down his cheeks. He sways from side to side, unable to control himself—his laughter is so colossal that the infection catches the others; theirs becomes genuine too.
BETTY. [With difficulty, trying to control herself.] The letter! Old
Gillingham! "His name, scoundrel, his name!"
WALTER. [Gurgling.] With his hand at my throat! Sit there, villain, and write!