Mary Broome: A Comedy, in Four Acts

by Allan Monkhouse

MRS. TIMBRELL. He’s lucky to marry such a girl as Mary.

BROOME. He’s not up to much himself, isn’t he?

MRS. TIMBRELL. I didn’t say that.

BROOME. He seems to be kep’ rather short of brass.

MRS. TIMBRELL. [Sees the flowers in her hands.] Oh! I brought you these, Mary.

MARY. [Takes them.] Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, Mrs. Timbrell.

BROOME. [Rather truculantly.] That baby’ll get a fat lot o’ good out o’ them.

MRS. TIMBRELL. Is the baby ill, Mary?

MARY. I keep fancying he’s not so well. His father’s gone for the doctor.