BREFFITT. I suppose it is—I suppose it is. I hope you'll remember, sir, that I've put the interest of the firm before everything—before every consideration.
GERALD. Of course, Breffitt.
BREFFITT. But you've not had any liking for the office staff, I'm afraid, sir—not since your father put you amongst us for a few months.—Well, sir, we shall weather this gale, I hope, as we've weathered those in the past. Times don't become better, do they? Men are an ungrateful lot, and these agitators should be lynched. They would, if I had my way.
GERALD. Yes, of course. Don't wait.
BREFFITT. Good night to you. (Exit.)
GERALD. Good night.
ANABEL. He's the last, apparently.
GERALD. We'll hope so.
ANABEL. He puts you in a fury.
GERALD. It's his manner. My father spoilt them—abominable old limpets. And they're so self-righteous. They think I'm a sort of criminal who has instigated this new devilish system which runs everything so close and cuts it so fine—as if they hadn't made this inevitable by their shameless carelessness and wastefulness in the past. He may well boast of his forty years—forty years' crass, stupid wastefulness.