Sir J. Wither?
Mollen. Fade on the stalk! Refuse her food—live on poetry and tea! Be a martyr! Then anæmia acts in. Doctors, nurses, cures—and all the time, mind you, she's hugging an imaginary grief!
Sir J. (Impatiently) But, why, in the name of Heaven—
Mollen. Heaven only knows. I didn't make women—I have merely observed them. If you don't believe me, ask Rosamund.
Lady C. (demurely) Sir Joseph knows, I always agree with Papa.
Mollen. (rise and up R. C.) And, mark you, more, when I tell her you meant the nephew, she at once proceeds to hate the nephew.
Sir J. (feebly) Hate him!
Mollen. Inevitably.
Sir J. Lady Claude!
Lady C. Papa means that her vanity will be piqued.