Mother.
Do you think he must be bad, just because he’s different from you?
Anthony.
Where is he now? It’s long past dinner-time. I’ll wager the food is all boiled away or dried up, because Clara has secret orders not to set the table till he comes.
Mother.
Where do you think he is? At most he’ll be playing skittles. He has to go to the farthest alley, so that you won’t find him, and then of course it takes him a long time to get back. I don’t know what you have against the game; it’s harmless enough.
Anthony.
Against the game? I’ve nothing at all against it. Fine gentlemen must have their amusements. But for the kings of spades and diamonds, real kings would often find time heavy on their hands. And if there were no skittles—who knows?—dukes and princes might be rolling our heads about. But there’s no worse folly for a working man than to waste his hard-earned money on games. What a man has laboured for by the sweat of his brow, that he should honour and value highly, unless he wants to lose his balance altogether and grow to despise his honest work. How it hurts me to throw away a shilling! (Door bell rings.)
Mother.
There he comes.