Mollen. (round back of C. table) Secret engagement! You tell her—paternal again—you give her a month to reflect. Secrecy all round—except us. You bound—she free.
Sir J. How does that help me?
Mollen. Follow me closely. (to L. of table C.) During that month you become—senile.
Sir J. Senile! Why, hang it, I'm only forty-five!
Mollen. And she's nineteen! Strip off your limelight—to her you're Methuselah! (sitting L. of C. table.)
Sir J. (protesting) I—
Mollen. (breaking in impetuously) My dear friend, you don't really imagine that she loves you? Whatever's real in her loves Everard—or any other good-looking young fellow of his age whom she chances to meet. What she admires in you is your talent, your position, your power. Very well, take them off!
Sir J. (blankly) How can I?
Mollen. I've told you—be senile. Fidgety, crotchety—sensitive to draughts—dyspeptic—adore your food. Flannel nightcap—false teeth—
Sir J. (indignantly rising) I haven't!