Jawbones. They’ve took objection to one of our posters.
Geoffrey. What, another! (To St. Herbert.) Woman has disappointed me as a fighter. She’s willing enough to strike. If you hit back, she’s surprised and grieved.
St. Herbert. She’s come to the game rather late.
Geoffrey. She might have learned the rules. (To Jawbones.) Which particular one is it that has failed to meet with their approval?
Jawbones. It’s rather a good one, sir, from our point of view: “Why she left her ’appy ’ome.”
Geoffrey. I don’t seem to remember it. Have I seen it?
Jawbones. I don’t think you ’ave, sir. It was Mr. Sigsby’s idea. On the left, the ruined ’ome, baby crying it’s little ’eart out—eldest child lying on the floor, scalded—upset the tea-kettle over itself—youngest boy in flames—been playing with the matches, nobody there to stop ’im. At the open door the father, returning from work. Nothing ready for ’im. On the other side—’er, on a tub, spouting politics.
Geoffrey. (To St. Herbert.) Sounds rather good.
Jawbones. Wait a minute. There was a copy somewhere about—a proof. (He is searching for it on the desk—finds it.) Yus, ’ere ’tis. (To Ginger.) Catch ’old.
(Jawbones and Ginger hold it displayed.)