Dr. Thorne. Don’t complain. I hate a complaining woman.
Mrs. Thorne (has advanced towards him, and impulsively put up her arms! Drops them at this and turns sadly). I did not know I was complaining, Esmerald.
Dr. Thorne. Most people don’t know when they are disagreeable. (He does not offer to kiss her; pulls off his overcoat nervously.) Isn’t dinner ready? I am starved out.
(Maggie is seen in the dining-room hastily serving dinner.)
Mrs. Thorne (ringing). Maggie had orders to put it on as soon as she heard your wheels.... Yes. There! You poor, hungry fellow!
Enter Maggie.
Maggie. Dinner is served, Mrs. Thorne.
Dr. Thorne. I must run up and change my coat, first—no, I won’t. I haven’t time. I am driven to death. Come along, Helen. (Strides out before her; then recalls himself from his discourtesy, and steps back. Dr. Thorne is a tall, well-built, handsome man, of distinguished bearing, but with a slight limp; his face is disfigured by a frown, as he looks at his wife. He repeats) I am driven to death! I haven’t time to call my soul my own.
Mrs. Thorne (archly). I thought you hadn’t any soul, dear. Or I thought you thought you hadn’t.
Dr. Thorne (crossly). Soul? Rubbish! It is more than I can do to manage bodies. Soul? Stuff! What have you got for dinner?