mr. voysey. Women play that game better than men. A man shuffles through courtship with one eye on her relations.
The Major comes stalking back, followed in a fearful flurry by his elder sister, honor. Poor honor [her female friends are apt to refer to her as Poor honor] is a phenomenon common to most large families. From her earliest years she has been bottle washer to her brothers. While they were expensively educated she was grudged schooling; her highest accomplishment was meant to be mending their clothes. Her fate is a curious survival of the intolerance of parents towards her sex until the vanity of their hunger for sons had been satisfied. In a less humane society she would have been exposed at birth. But if a very general though patronising affection, accompanied by no consideration at all, can bestow happiness, honor is not unhappy in her survival. At this moment, however, her life is a burden.
major booth voysey. Honor, they are not in the dining-room.
honor. But they must be!—Where else can they be?
She has a habit of accentuating one word in each sentence and often the wrong one.
major booth voysey. That's what you ought to know.
mr. voysey. [as he moves towards the door.] Well . . will you have a game?
mr. george booth. I'll play you fifty up, not more. I'm getting old.
mr. voysey. [stopping at a dessert dish.] Yes, these are good apples of Bearman's. I think six of my trees are spoilt this year.
honor. Here you are, Booth.