Phoebe. No chance for me then?
St. Herbert. I don’t say that. I can see you taking your political opinions from your husband, and thinking them your own.
Phoebe. Good heavens!
St. Herbert. The brainy woman will think for herself. And then I foresee some lively breakfast tables.
Phoebe. Humph! No fear, I suppose, of a man taking his views from his wife and thinking them his own?
St. Herbert. That may be the solution. The brainy woman will have to marry the manly man.
(Ginger enters.)
Jawbones. (He is on his knees blowing the fire. In a low growl.) Shut the door!
Ginger. Can’t till I’m inside, can I? (Shuts it.) Where’s Lady Mogton?
Jawbones. I don’t know.