Mary Jane. No, sir, the mother of—
Twitters. Is she here? (With feeling.)
Mary Jane. No, sir, she’s gone.
Twitters. Something ghoulish is going on somewhere, then, or she would have stayed. That women is a perfect vulture. If anything horrible happens to anybody, she comes pouncing down to gloat over it. I’m becoming a fiend, myself; I rejoice in the news of any misfortune, for it means temporary deliverance for me from her—has she eaten everything?
Mary Jane. All there was, sir.
Twitters. How soon can you get some more?
Mary Jane. It’ll be ten minutes, sir.
Twitters. I shall have to breakfast in town, then. I must be off. John’s here, of course?
Mary Jane. No, sir, he’s took.
Twitters. Good heavens! A fit?