Mary Jane. No, sir; the mother of the late Mrs. Twitters.
Twitters. Where has she taken him?
Mary Jane. To the funeral obelisk of an Irish gentleman, sir.
Twitters. To Parson Paddy’s funeral?
Mary Jane. That’s just it, sir.
Twitters. I hated that man, but his death caused me deep sorrow. Her cap was set at him. I must run for the train. Where are my boots? Ah, here! (Opening a box and producing a funeral wreath) what in the name of nature is this?
Mary Jane. It’s her’s, sir; she’s been and gone and took the boots to the burying, and she’s left nothing behind but Christian resignation.
Twitters. Damn Christian resignation. (Pitches box across stage; a letter falls out; he picks it up and opens it during speech.) Call Miss Clara and tell her I’ll breakfast with her. I can’t get to town till eleven, now. And get something uncommonly good to eat, mind you. A bad temper needs good food.
Mary Jane. Yes, sir; I noticed, sir, how the old lady had a fine appetite.
Twitters (severely). Speak civilly of members of my family, if you expect to keep your place. (Glancing at paper, which he has taken from envelope.) Why, the damned old harridan.