george. Good-bye, Parson.
dr. remnant. [As he bows.] Your most obedient.
carnaby. And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of the respect due to womanhood and now the result . . . hark to it squalling.
dr. remnant. Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the new-born?
carnaby. Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so.
george. I did say so.
carnaby. I feel the whole matter deeply.
george half laughs.
carnaby. George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile. That's a home thrust of a metaphor.
george laughs again.