Coddle (shouts). Yes? (Puts partridge on his own plate.) Jane can’t boil spinach. I hate spinach. (Helps Whitwell to the spinach.)
Whitwell (rises). I can’t stand this. This is a little too much!
Coddle (shouts). Nothing more? Good! (Drops voice.) Get rid of you all the sooner.—Jane, cigars. Give me a Havana; hand Mr. Whittermat a stogy. (Crosses to R.)
Whitwell (aside, furious). How much longer shall I stand this?
Jane (aside to Whitwell). Hush! He don’t know you hear him. Don’t upset your fish-kittle.
Whitwell (aside). Very well. I’d like to drop him into it.
Jane. Hoity, toity! Now see me. We’ll have a little fun with the old sheep.
Coddle. Jane, where are those cigars?
Jane (takes box from console, and offers it; shouts). Here they be. (Drops voice.) Jackass! tyrant! muttonhead! I hope they’ll turn your stomick.
Coddle (seizes her ear). What? You infamous minx! I a jackass? I a tyrant? I a muttonhead? (Pulls her round.) I’m a sheep, am I? I’m a mollycoddle, am I? You call me an idiot, do you?