You mean a mule! [She rises in tears, and crosses to the mantelpiece.] I think I could have borne it better if he'd only been a nice mule. B—but—[breaking down]—he isn't!
Pringle.
[Rising and going towards her.] You don't say so! [Sympathetically.] That, of course, must make it all the harder for you.
Sylvia.
[Tearfully.] His temper is simply fearful! Why, just now, when I said he must try to manage some oats or a carrot for lunch, he—he lashed out and sent his hoofs through the mummy-case!
Pringle.
Dear—dear! Perhaps if you could persuade him to see a vet——[Correcting himself.] I mean a doctor——
Sylvia.
[Crossing towards sofa on right.] It would be no use—he never will take medicine! And what are we to do with him? It's too dreadful to think that he may have to be sent to—to a Home of Rest for Horses!
[She sinks on sofa, and bursts into tears once more.