If you ever find yourself a spare man again, Archibald, it won't be because I have worried and fretted you with my peevish ill-humour—
RANKLING.
Emma!
MRS. RANKLING.
As you have worried and worn me with yours.
RANKLING.
Emma, you have completely lost your head. [She raises the broken bust.] I don't mean that confounded bust. That was an ideal.
MRS. RANKLING.
And if a mere sculptor could make your wife an ideal, why shouldn't you try? So, understand me finally, Archibald, I will not be ground down any longer. Unless some arrangement is arrived at for the happiness of dear Dinah and Mr. Paulover, I leave you.