mrs. voysey. [coquetting with him.] Don't be rude, Trench.
honor descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done.
honor. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish clearing?
mr. voysey. [arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness.] Now who's careless!
phoebe comes into the room.
honor. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr. Hugh.
mrs. voysey. [having looked at the shawl, and honor, and connected the matter in her mind.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.
honor. Papa!
mr. voysey. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.
honor. [fluttering more than ever.] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey? And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.