MRS. TIMBRELL. That can’t be.
TIMBRELL. That shall be.
LEONARD. Oh! This is all very absurd. We are not being practical at all. Mary, I’m sorry. It’s no good you and me marrying. Now is it?
MARY. I suppose not, Mr. Leonard. I don’t know what I’m going to do, though.
LEONARD. My father can give you a bit of that £300 a year he talks about. And then—Oh! of course, I don’t know. I should like to act handsomely but what can I do? This talk of marriage—frankly—is a bit of antiquated Puritanism. Mary, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re a good girl. I’m all to blame. [He turns to his father who sits grimly silent, then to his mother.] Mother, you settle it.
MRS. TIMBRELL. I don’t know how.
LEONARD. You parents are in a middle stage. Once you’d just have been brutal to the girl. I don’t mean you, but parents generally. Presently we may have more sense. I’m a selfish brute but I’ve got some sense. But I’m powerless. [To his father.] Haven’t you any imagination? It’s all very fine to make a scene here and put down your foot and coerce me into your beastly righteousness but think of the years to come. Do you see us married? Do you see our married life? Forgive me, Mary.
TIMBRELL. You shall make an honest woman of her.
LEONARD. A fine old phrase, that.
TIMBRELL. I’m not ashamed of it.