Mrs. G. (with conviction, dropping her querulous tone). He's something to be proud of. I'm the mother of a great man. You can't open a newspaper without you see his name.
Glad. I know that.
Mrs. G. You've seen it?
Glad. Often.
Mrs. G. (rising and coming to table). But not all. I've got them all here. I cut them out, reports of his speeches, and paste them in this book. (Crosses to sofa with press-cutting book and sits by Gladys.)
Glad. His speeches in Parliament?
Mrs. G. (with fine scorn). Peter doesn't waste his words on Parliament. He goes direct to the people—addressing meetings up and down the country. (Glowing with pride.) They fight to get him. Pity is he can't split himself in bits and be in six places at once. Two guineas a speech he gets—and expenses,—more sometimes. That's what they think of him, Miss Mottram. That's my son. (Pointing to a heading in the hook.) Silver-tongued Garside. That's what they call him.
Glad. Yes, I see. (She turns a page.)
Mrs. G. (looking, bending round Gladys). Oh, no, not that. I oughtn't to have pasted that in. It's an attack on him in one of our own papers. They call him something he didn't like.
Glad, (reading). Platitudinous Peter.