Mrs. Chinn. I expect it’s about done. I’ll see.
(She goes out.)
Sigsby. (He turns to Ginger.) What can I do for you?
Ginger. (She produces a letter.) I was to wait for an answer.
Sigsby. (He opens and reads it.) What do they expect me to do?
Ginger. ’Er ladyship thought as perhaps you would consult Mr. Chilvers ’imself on the subject.
Sigsby. Look here. What I want to know is this: am I being asked to regard Lady Mogton as my opponent’s election agent, or as my principal’s mother-in-law? That point’s got to be settled. (His vehemence deepens.) Look at all these posters. Not to be used, for fear the other side mayn’t like them. Now Lady Mogton writes me that my candidate’s supporters are not to employ a certain argument she disapproves of: because, if they do, she’ll tell his wife. Is this an election, or is it a family jar?
(Jawbones enters. Jawbones—otherwise William Gordon—is a clean-shaven young hooligan. He wears a bicycle cap on the back of his head, allowing a picturesque tuft of hair to fall over his forehead. Evidently he is suffering from controlled indignation.)
Sigsby. (Seeing him.) Oh, so you’ve come back, have you?
Jawbones. I ’ave, wot’s left of me.