Mrs. R. Haslam. Work is work, young lady, and insists on being done (with meaning), whatever else happens or does not happen.
Flora. Ah! The birthrate article—has the poor thing been declining all this time?
Cedric. (Anxious for his parents to depart.) Mother, you ought to go to bed at once—you look absolutely exhausted.
Mrs. R. Haslam. Is it surprising? I was just saying to your father that if this kind of thing was likely to occur often I should have to devise some way of procuring tea at sunrise.
Flora. But do you want some tea?
Mrs. R. Haslam. I never want what I can't have. I shall doubtless hold out till eight o'clock.
Cedric. Couldn't the dad make you some?
Mrs. R. Haslam. Impossible, child! At four o'clock in the morning!
Mr. R. Haslam. The cook always locks up the kitchen to keep Cuthbert and Fisher out.
Cedric. Seems odd that in a house like this you can't have a cup of tea whenever you happen to want it!