Don’t, Mater!
Lady Twombley.
Three thousand pounds! Three thousand times I wish you had never been born! I—I—— [She breaks down, puts her arms round Brooke’s neck, and cries.] Oh, Brooke, my dear, forgive your poor mother’s vile temper. I’ve made my Brooke’s head ache. Oh, my gracious!
Brooke Twombley.
Don’t fret, Mater. If you’re run rather low at Scott’s——
Lady Twombley.
Scott’s, Brooke! When I creep into that bank now and ask for my pass-book I have to hold on to the edge of the counter, I feel so sick and giddy.
Brooke Twombley.
Oh, very well then, Mater, I can wait. Mr. Nazareth, of Burlington Street, will accommodate me for a time; a couple of bills, you know, at three and six months—what?
Lady Twombley.