BRASSBOUND. Why not, now that you have taken the meaning out of them? (He tears them.) Is that a comfort too?
LADY CICELY. It's a little sad; but perhaps it is best so.
BRASSBOUND. That leaves one relic: her portrait. (He plucks the photograph out of its cheap case.)
LADY CICELY (with vivid curiosity). Oh, let me see. (He hands it to her. Before she can control herself, her expression changes to one of unmistakable disappointment and repulsion.)
BRASSBOUND (with a single sardonic cachinnation). Ha! You expected something better than that. Well, you're right. Her face does not look well opposite yours.
LADY CICELY (distressed). I said nothing.
BRASSBOUND. What could you say? (He takes back the portrait: she relinquishes it without a word. He looks at it; shakes his head; and takes it quietly between his finger and thumb to tear it.)
LADY CICELY (staying his hand). Oh, not your mother's picture!
BRASSBOUND. If that were your picture, would you like your son to keep it for younger and better women to see?
LADY CICELY (releasing his hand). Oh, you are dreadful! Tear it, tear it. (She covers her eyes for a moment to shut out the sight.)