Mollen. Imagine you have.
(Sir J. re-sits.)
Speak of them often! Boil your milk! Retire at nine, have your paper warmed. Tell her you mean to resign the House, give up the Bar, live in the country, ten miles from a station, and write a book on Constitutional Law!
Sir J. All that, eh?
Mollen. And dictate to her five hours a day! Find fault with her spelling—be always finding fault!
Sir J. Lively for both of us! But look here—seeing that she has lived with me for a year, and I haven't been senile—
Mollen. (with a petulant gesture) Tut, tut, tut! Hitherto, you've concealed your—little ailments! But, now that you've won her, are sure of her, you show yourself—as you are! (rise) Oh, it's simple enough! And so much for frontal attack. (a step) As for skirmishes, we'll ask Rosamund to be good enough to flirt with the nephew—
Sir J. (turning to her) To flirt—you?
Lady C. (merrily) The poor boy will need consolation. And if I can be of service—