CHARLEY. Don’t be so touchy—can’t you see I’m talking to you for your good?
PERCY. I think you’re crazed.
CHARLEY. [sharply.] Why am I crazed, as you call it? Isn’t it because I know a little what your life is going to be? Haven’t I gone backwards and forwards to the city every day of my life since I was sixteen and am I crazed because I suggest it’s a bit monotonous? [Going close to PERCY and putting his hand on his shoulder solemnly.] I’m not saying she isn’t the right girl for you—I’m only suggesting that perhaps she isn’t! She’s pretty and she’s handy. . . .
PERCY. I say! I won’t have that.
CHARLEY. Don’t. Pass it over. It’s just this—think—and don’t marry the first pretty girl and live in three rooms because your brother-in-law did it.
PERCY. She wasn’t—the first pretty girl. . . .
SYBIL. [appearing at opening and smiling demurely.] Mrs. Wilson says—Oh, Mr. Wilson, have you been fighting?
CHARLEY. [suddenly remembering that he has his coat off.] I beg your pardon. [He pulls it on hastily.] [To PERCY.] Remember!
PERCY. [with his eyes on SYBIL.] Rot! [Goes back with SYBIL.]