farrant. That's your own fault, Trebell.
horsham. The fool says I didn't give him explicit instructions.
farrant. What fool?
horsham. That man . . [The name fails him.] . . my new man. One of those touches of Fate's little finger, really.
He begins to consult the ceiling and the carpet once more. trebell tackles cantelupe with gravity.
trebell. I have only a logical mind, Cantelupe. I know that to make myself a capable man I've purged myself of all the sins . . I never was idle enough to commit. I know that if your God didn't make use of men, sins and all . . what would ever be done in the world? That one natural action, which the slight shifting of a social law could have made as negligible as eating a meal, can make me incapable . . takes the linch-pin out of one's brain, doesn't it?
horsham. Trebell, we've been doing our best to get you out of this mess. Your remarks to O'Connell weren't of any assistance, and . .
cantelupe stands up, so momentously that horsham's gentle flow of speech dries up.
cantelupe. Perhaps I had better say at once that, whatever hushing up you may succeed in, it will be impossible for me to sit in a cabinet with Mr. Trebell.
It takes even farrant a good half minute to recover his power of speech on this new issue.