Mrs. Futvoye.
[Hastily.] She is very busy too, helping my husband. [Here the noise reaches its finale in a resounding crash and clatter of falling furniture and shivered glass; Mrs. Futvoye proceeds without appearing to have noticed it.] He—he sometimes makes use of her as—as his amanuensis.
[The sliding-doors are suddenly run back, and Sylvia appears. She does not see Pringle, who has risen and moved to the right, from which position he can see into the study. Mrs. Futvoye makes a movement towards her to check any disclosures.
Sylvia.
[In despair.] Oh, Mother! Mother! You must come to father! He's kicking worse than ever, and I can't manage him any longer!
Pringle.
[To himself, recoiling, after a glance through the sliding-doors, off.] My hat!
Mrs. Futvoye.
[Warningly, as Sylvia carefully closes sliding-doors, pushes the sofa aside, and comes down.] Sylvia! Don't you see Mr. Pringle?
Sylvia.