mr. booth. [testily.] What decision?
edward. To remain in the firm when I first knew of the difficulties.
mr. booth. [interested.] Was I present?
edward. I daresay.
mr. booth stands there, hat, stick and gloves in hand, shaken by this experience, helpless, at his wits' end. He falls into a sort of fretful reverie, speaking half to himself but yet as if he hoped that edward, who is wrapped in his own thoughts, would have the decency to answer, or at least listen, to what he is saying.
mr. booth. Yes, how often I dined with him. Oh, it was monstrous! [his eyes fall on the clock.] It's nearly lunch time now. Do you know I still can hardly believe all this? I wish I hadn't found it out. If he hadn't died I should never have found it out. I hate to have to be vindictive . . it's not my nature. Indeed I'm sure I'm more grieved than angry. But it isn't as if it were a small sum. And I don't see that one is called upon to forgive crimes . . or why does the Law exist? I feel that this will go near to killing me. I'm too old to have such troubles . . it isn't right. And now if I have to prosecute—
edward. [at last throwing in a word.] You need not.
mr. booth. [thankful for the provocation.] Don't you attempt to influence me, sir.
He turns to go.