mr. george booth. I still have my headache. [with a distracted shout.] Headache.
mrs. voysey. Bilious, perhaps! I quite understood you didn't care to dine. But why not have taken your coat off? How foolish in this warm room!
mr. george booth. Thank you. I'm just going.
He seizes the market basket. At that moment mrs. hugh appears.
beatrice. Your shawl, mother. [and she clasps it round mrs. voysey's shoulders.]
mrs. voysey. Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I had it on. [then to mr. booth who is now entangled in his comforter.] A merry Christmas to you.
beatrice. Good evening, Mr. Booth.
mr. george booth. I beg your pardon. Good evening, Mrs. Hugh.
honor. [with sudden inspiration, to the company in general.] Why shouldn't I write in here . . now the table's cleared!
mr. george booth. [sternly, now he is safe by the door.] Will you see me out, Edward?