Margaret. Day after day he is with her—with her all the time. She—ah, Joseph, you may not have observed it—but women have quick eyes! Lady Claude was a friend of yours once, I know—but she is a designing woman!
Sir J. (angrily) I say! Look here!
Margaret. Oh, I mean nothing unkind. Women of that age—she is at least thirty-five—naturally crave to be—admired. And it is perfectly plain to me that she—is drawing Everard on.
Sir J. (grimly) Really!
Margaret. She flirts with him outrageously! She won't let him out of her sight! I've been looking forward to finding him a wife—you and I together—some girl who would make him happy.... But Lady Claude!
Sir J. (cunningly) Everard certainly seems to admire her—
Margaret. Is it not incomprehensible! She's so old.
Sir J. H'm, if it's the disproportion of age that shocks you, think of us! I—fifty—and you nineteen!
Margaret. (rise, and up to him) My love shall twine round you so softly that we shall divide my youth—shall share it. And, in the days to come, we shall ask—which one is old—Joseph—or Margaret?
Sir J. (sulkily) Conundrums of that kind will be useful, on winter evenings, with the wind howling down the chimney, and the rain coming through the roof—(turn away L.)