PHOEBE (with a sinking). Algebra! It—it is not a very ladylike study, Isabella.
ISABELLA. Father says, will you or won't you?
PHOEBE. And you are thin. It will make you thinner, my dear.
ISABELLA. Father says I am thin but wiry.
PHOEBE. Yes, you are. (With feeling.) You are very wiry, Isabella.
ISABELLA. Father says, either I acquire algebra or I go to Miss Prothero's establishment.
PHOEBE. Very well, I—I will do my best. You may go.
(ISABELLA goes and PHOEBE sits wearily.)
ARTHUR (fingering his cap). Please, ma'am, may I take it off now?
PHOEBE. Certainly not. Unhappy boy—— (ARTHUR grins.) Come here. Are you ashamed of yourself?