MARY. I find it hard to believe that.
LEONARD. I’m a curious kind of brute. I’m rotten with egoism. It startles me to come back to you and find you so steady and calm. I’d nearly forgotten what you are like.—I wish you’d denounce me or curse me or something.
MARY. It’s no use doing that now.
LEONARD. And how are we all getting on together? All a happy family? I believe it’s you that will unite us yet, Mary.
TIMBRELL. I’ve got to talk with you about a few arrangements. And I should like to say before you Leonard that your Mother and I have come to the conclusion that you owe a great deal to your wife and that her influence is a beneficent one. We are pleased—very much pleased—
LEONARD. What is it you’re thinking about, Mary. There’s something inscrutable in you. It seems to me that we’re just as uncomfortable as ever. Mother, let’s have a little motherliness or something. I don’t know how it is but I want cheering up. I came from the station most penitentially in a growler—an ancient fourwheeler. It made me think of your father, Mary. How is that good man? Got a job all right? By-the-bye, there’s an extraordinary upset at our place. I wanted to ask you about that. A lot of tin trunks with cords round them and things. Are we leaving? Are we going away?
MARY. I’m going away.
LEONARD. } { You are!
TIMBRELL. } [Together.] { Going away!