GERALD. Mother, you improve our already pretty reputation. Already they say you are mad.
MRS. BARLOW (ringing violently). Let me be mad then. I am mad—driven mad. One day I shall kill you, Gerald.
GERALD. You won't, mother because I sha'n't let you.
MRS. BARLOW. Let me!—let me! As if I should wait for you to let me!
GERALD. I am a match for you even in violence, come to that.
MRS. BARLOW. A match! A damp match. A wet match.
(Enter BUTLER.)
WILLIAM. You rang, madam?
MRS. BARLOW. Clear up those bits.—Where are you going to see that white-faced fellow? Here?
GERALD. I think so.