Lady Britomart arrives from the town with a bouquet.
LADY BRITOMART [coming impetuously between Undershaft and the deck chair] Andrew: you shouldn't have let me see this place.
UNDERSHAFT. Why, my dear?
LADY BRITOMART. Never mind why: you shouldn't have: that's all. To think of all that [indicating the town] being yours! and that you have kept it to yourself all these years!
UNDERSHAFT. It does not belong to me. I belong to it. It is the Undershaft inheritance.
LADY BRITOMART. It is not. Your ridiculous cannons and that noisy banging foundry may be the Undershaft inheritance; but all that plate and linen, all that furniture and those houses and orchards and gardens belong to us. They belong to me: they are not a man's business. I won't give them up. You must be out of your senses to throw them all away; and if you persist in such folly, I will call in a doctor.
UNDERSHAFT [stooping to smell the bouquet] Where did you get the flowers, my dear?
LADY BRITOMART. Your men presented them to me in your William Morris Labor Church.
CUSINS [springing up] Oh! It needed only that. A Labor Church!
LADY BRITOMART. Yes, with Morris's words in mosaic letters ten feet high round the dome. NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE ANOTHER MAN'S MASTER. The cynicism of it!