[Turning and starting.] Oh! What have I said?
Mrs. Futvoye.
Nothing, my dear. [Turning to Pringle.] I must ask you to excuse me, Mr. Pringle. My husband is a little irritable this morning. [Going up to sliding-doors.] A sharp attack of—of gout. In both legs, you know! [She slips in behind the long sofa, pushes back doors, draws the curtains behind them.] Anthony, you must not excite yourself like this.
[She goes into study, closing the sliding-doors after her. A slight pause. Sylvia pushes the sofa back against the sliding-doors and seats herself on it.
Pringle.
[Approaching the sofa, with sympathy.] I really had no idea your father was—was as bad as all this.
Sylvia.
[On her guard.] People do kick, Mr. Pringle, when they have gout—in both legs.
Pringle.
Do they? I should hardly have thought—particularly—[with meaning]—if they've gout in—all four.