mrs. voysey. What?
booth hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it.
booth. Have a glass of wine?
mrs. voysey. Sherry, please.
While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this occasion and not wine at all, edward comes quickly into the room, his face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all. trenchard is continuing his talk to denis.
trenchard. Give my love to Ethel. Is she ill that—
tregoning. Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be with us. I thought perhaps you might have heard. We're expecting . .
He hesitates with the bashfulness of a young husband. trenchard helps him out with a citizen's bow of respect for a citizen's duty.
trenchard. Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope all will be well. Please give my love . . my best love to Ethel.
booth. [in an awful voice.] Lunch, Emily?