Harry. No, but there's the thing! As most husbands know. [Referring to one bill after another, picking out items.] Lace coat, hand-made! En-tout-cas, studded cabochons of lapis lazuli—studded cabochons—studded cabochons!
Dolly. [Has quietly seated herself, and is looking at the ceiling.] Couldn't you manage to pitch your voice in rather a softer key?
Harry. [Comes angrily down to her, bills in hand, speaks in a whisper, very rapidly and fiercely.] Yes! And I say that a woman who goes and runs up bills like these, [dashing the back of one hand against the bills in the other] while her husband is smoking threepenny cigars, will very soon bring herself and him to one of those new palatial workhouses where, thank heaven, the cuisine and appointments are now [ organized] with a view of providing persons of your tastes with every luxury at the ratepayers' expense. [Returns angrily to the bills, turns them over.] Irish lace bolero! [Turns to another.] Fur motor coat, fifty-five guineas——
Dolly. [Calmly gazing at the ceiling.] You told me to look as smart as Mrs. Colefield.
Harry. Not at that price! If I'd known what that motor tour would cost by Jove! I'd——
Dolly. You're getting noisy again. You'll wake my father.
Harry. He ought to be waked! He ought to know what his daughter is saddling me with.
Dolly. Very well, if you don't care how shabby I look——
Harry. Shabby! [Referring to bills.] Lace demi-toilette! Point de Venise lace Directoire coat! Shabby?
Dolly. My dear Harry, do you suppose we shall ever agree as to what constitutes shabbiness?