MRS. G. (apart to BETSY) You’re quite sure they can do no harm?
BETSY. (apart) You needn’t be afraid, mum, there’s nothing but powder in them.
MRS. G. (apart) Well, you know what you have to do. (BETSY goes into room, L.) He-hem!
GREEN. Oh, you’re come?
MRS. G. Yes, miserable man, I’ve come that you may go—I’ve got the popguns!
GREEN. Have you? then mind how you point them this way. Where are you? (crosses to L.)
MRS. G. Here—here—make haste!
GREEN. What a devil of a hurry you’re in! (in groping about he touches one of the pistols, which MRS. G. holds with extended arm, and starts back) Oh! you shouldn’t do that—not that I’m afraid—but the sensation is far from pleasant.
MRS. G. Come, sir, you shall take one and leave me the other.
GREEN. Thank you. (feels the pistol; aside) The touch of them throws me into a cold perspiration! I wish I knew which was the mildest of the pair.