Mollen. You must go to her, Balsted! Play the game. One week more—
Sir J. I'd rather spend it in gaol, picking oakum. (Margaret off, "Joseph! Joseph!!") Oh, Mollentrave, if it were not for your daughter, how I'd wish that I never had met you!
(He goes—miserably—R. 3 E.)
Mollen. (coming down R. shaking his head) And that man, Rosamund, is one of our most eminent lawyers!
Lady C. (down R. C.) Papa, I must tell you—it's strange—though Everard and I talk of nothing but Margaret every day, from two till seven—
Mollen. Well?
Lady C. (pathetically) Think of it! From two till seven—every day!
Mollen. Science must have its martyrs! Tell yourself that you're watching human love wriggle—under the microscope!
Lady C. Though he recounts, with minutest detail, every word she has spoken to him since they first met—what she said, what he said, how she looked, what she wore, the gestures she made—still, and for all that, I have a feeling at times, a kind of idea—