ELSIE. I've arranged the front bedroom for him.
MRS. METHERELL (angrily). I'd have you to know that's my room.
ELSIE. The other is such a cheerless, poky little place. It's dark, there's no fireplace, no proper carpet, nothing but a camp-bed and a second-hand bookstall.
MRS. METHERELL. It's good enough for him.
ELSIE. Nothing but the best is good enough for a man who plays football like Jack.
MRS. METHERELL. Football's one thing. Home's another. He's at home here. Do you think he sleeps in the best bedroom?
ELSIE. He must have the best-lighted room just now.
MRS. METHERELL. So I'm to turn out for him, am I?
ELSIE. That isn't asking very much. I don't believe you care for him at all. How can you sit at home when he's playing football?
MRS. METHERELL. Custom's everything. (Sitting in rocking-chair.) I'm used to my men being before the public. Jack's father was a public man—an undertaker, (Edmund winces) and I've known him have as many as six funerals on a Saturday afternoon, but I didn't go to the cemetery to see he buried them properly, and I reckon it's the same with Jack. He can kick a ball without my watching him. (Changing tone.) And now perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by interfering in my house?