edward. Whether what you have done and are doing is wrong or right . . I can't meddle in it.
For the moment mr. voysey looks a little dangerous.
mr. voysey. Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back to your room. Get back to your own mean drudgery. My life's work—my splendid life's work—ruined! What does that matter?
edward. Whatever did you expect of me?
mr. voysey. [making a feint at his papers.] Oh, nothing, nothing. [Then he slams them down with great effect.] Here's a great edifice built up by years of labour and devotion and self sacrifice . . a great arch you may call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety with honour. [This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed.] My work! And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks the key-stone. Perhaps I am to die with my work just incomplete. Then is there nothing that a son might do? Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . . that I shouldn't bless you from—wherever I may be, when you completed my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly thought of your father?
In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressing edward.
edward. What will happen if I . . if I desert you?
mr. voysey. I'll protect you as best I can.
edward. I wasn't thinking of myself, sir.
mr. voysey. [with great nonchalance.] Well, I shan't mind the exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in my coffin . . and you're not so foolish I hope as to be thinking of the feelings of your brothers and sisters. Considering how simple it would have been for me to go to my grave in peace and quiet and let you discover the whole thing afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken some thought for the future of all of you might perhaps have convinced you that I . . ! But there . . consult your own safety.