TIMBRELL. Some truth? Some truth? Do you mean to say—I don’t understand you. I don’t like to ask you what you mean—I—
PENDLETON. Now, Timbrell, I think we’d better leave it here. [To MRS. PENDLETON.] Don’t you think so, Maria?
MRS. PENDLETON. I should want to carry it a little further in her place.
MRS. TIMBRELL. [Having quite recovered.] Would anybody like to ask me any questions?
PENDLETON. [Shocked.] Questions?
MRS. TIMBRELL. About my early life. [She gives a sad little laugh.]
PENDLETON. Questions! My dear madam—
TIMBRELL. This is painful. This is quite impossible. [To his wife.] I cannot understand you. I suppose you are trying to screen him.
MARY. He always speaks of his mother beautifully.
LEONARD. And why shouldn’t I when I admire her immensely? Why can’t you people be natural and let me be natural? I say there’s a strange, mysterious, incalculable being behind her placid mask and you want to make out I mean something beastly. How have you stood it all these years, mother? And they never seem to have found you out.