Mary Jane. The equipage, mum? I didn’t see you come in no carriage.
Mother. My limited earthly resources do not permit me to provide myself with such luxuries. I shall use one of your master’s. My poor, dear, departed daughter, did not survive to enjoy his prosperity. I do.
Mary Jane. But he wants the carriage to go to the train, mum.
Mother. Trains go hourly. (Takes up a box. Exit.)
Mary Jane (standing at window). Well, if the late Mrs. Twitters was like this mother of hers, it ain’t no wonder that master’s kind of fidgety like. There,—she’s got hold of John, now, and she’s stepping into the carriage that was going to take master to the train. And she’s druv off! Oh, deary me. What vicious things elderly women can be. (Enter Twitters hastily.)
Twitters (Looking at watch). I shall have a close shave for the 9-20 train, but I think I can manage it. Breakfast’s ready of course, of course?
Mary Jane. It was ready sir.
Twitters (approaching table). Why, what on earth does this mean?
Mary Jane. The mother of the late Mrs. Twitters—
Twitters. The devil!