MRS. PENDLETON. Well, you’ve got two very different sons, Mrs. Timbrell.
PENDLETON. Leave that, Maria.
LEONARD. Which favours the mother, Mrs. Pendleton?
MRS. PENDLETON. Why, Mr. Edgar.
LEONARD. No—no. You wouldn’t say that, Mother.
MRS. TIMBRELL. I’ve not said it. I’ve never said it.
LEONARD. [Takes his Mother by the shoulders.] You’ve borne two sons little mother. How did you manage to make them so different? By God! You’re nearer to me; you’re more like me. And like Mary; I tell you, you’re like Mary. A strain of wildness. Yes. Where does my wildness come from? It comes from you. [He shakes her gently.] I know you. Oh! you’re demure. I know you. I wonder what you were before you became a respectable married woman. Ah! you cunning little one. You’ve doubled and turned in your time; you’ve—
TIMBRELL. Stop, stop.
EDGAR. Monstrous.
PENDLETON. By Jove! this is too much.