Walter (quietly). It's my home, Mr. Verity.
Ste. (with gusto). Yes, it's the home of the leisured and privileged class of Carrington. It's five big houses with a kind of a square of tennis lawn in the middle of them and a great big garden behind each. It's the only apology for a breathing space we have and it's bang in the middle of the town. You've got great gates to it marked "private" and a lodge keeper to watch 'em and see none of the common herd get in to soil your sacred air by breathing it in their vulgar lungs. It's a shame and a scandal for the land to be wasted on you and it's not going to be wasted much longer.
Walter (without passion). To the people who live there, it's——-
Ste. (interrupting). They're about twenty all told. Who are they to get in the way of the thousands that live crowded up like rabbits outside?
Walter. They happen to be able to afford it, Mr. Verity.
Ste. (sarcastically). Yes. They're well-to-do, so they've the right to monopolize the air.
Walter (mildly). Yes, yes. But you do put things so violently.
Ste. (glancing at Jim for approval). I feel 'em violently.
Walter (half apologetically). You must remember this is quite a new idea to me, and for the moment it seems iconoclastic, if you don't mind my saying so.
Ste. (sneering). Yes. Like all your class, you don't like new ideas. I'll say nothing about your Church, though that don't like new things either.