“Out of sympathy, I suppose, for Prudence and Charles. It has never happened to us before, dear, but these—how shall I put it—these sympathetic strikes are not uncommon, I fancy.”
Sir Geoffrey’s eyes obtruded; so did his chin.
“Strikes, Mary? Did you say—strikes? Good God!”
“Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Mowland are very tearful. We must exercise the greatest forbearance.”
The Squire roared out:
“Let the whole ungrateful pack go to blazes. You and I, Mary, will end our days in a nice comfortable hotel.”
“My dear Geoffrey——! Are there any nice comfortable hotels left?”
The Squire answered mournfully:
“Not one. Mary, I have never felt so sore, so disillusioned, so profoundly convinced that life under modern conditions is not worth living.”
Charles appeared, obviously apologetic.