GILBEY. You would, would you? Youre going to meet him at the prison door.
DORA. Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a lady?
GILBEY. [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy the lad's salvation, I suppose. How much will you take to clear out and let him go?
DORA. [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would that do, old dear? There are others, you know.
GILBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himself away.
DORA. Where to?
GILBEY. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your like.
DORA. Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old dear. I'm sorry for you: I really am, though you mightnt believe it; and I think your feelings do you real credit. But I cant give him up just to let him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I?
GILBEY. [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? Wheres the Government? Wheres the Church? Wheres respectability and right reason? Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you put my son in your pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly out of gaol as a common drunk and disorderly? Whats the world coming to?
DORA. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear?