Con. (with a gloomy determination). More like his business, Madam, is with—Me!
C.'s M. (suddenly enlightened). A Suck-a-thumb? ... you, Conrad?
C. (desperately). Ay,—from birth!
[Profound silence, as Mother and Son face one another. The knocking is renewed.
C.'s M. Oh, this is horrible—it must not be!
I'll shoot the bolt and barricade the door.
[Conrad places himself before it, and addresses his Mother in a tone of incisive irony.
Con. Why, where is all the zeal you showed of late?
Is't thus that you the Roman Matron play?
Trick not a statute of your own devising.
Come, your official's waiting—let him in!
[C's M. shrinks back appalled.
So? you refuse!—(throwing open door)—then—enter, Scissorman!