DEX. What if you do? What are we to live on? (Goes to Clara l.)
CLARA. Gulls, I suppose—as we always have done.
DEX. Yes, and is it pleasant living? Is it pleasant to have to slave and trick for every dinner? Is it pleasant to be kicked—sooner or later—out of every society one goes into? (Coming close and speaking low.) Was it pleasant to be buried for two years in that God-forsaken hole by Exmoor, not daring to show our heads above ground for a moment? You’ve got a fine chance of being respectable now.
CLARA. Too late, I’m afraid, though.
DEX. (r. c.) Too late?
CLARA. Yes—you see, papa, dear, you haven’t exactly brought me up in that way, and I’m afraid I’m too old to learn now. I don’t think I should be quite at home as the wife of a piously brought up young man from the country. (Leans back—laughs.)
DEX. And so you’re going to let six thousand a year slip through your fingers. It’s wicked—it’s wicked.
CLARA. (Laughs—rises.) Well, it hasn’t slipped through my fingers just at present, it is sticking to them pretty freely. (Crosses to R.—Dex is c.—toys with ring.)
DEX. (Goes to table r.c.) And how long do you think he will stand you playing with him?
CLARA. Oh, a good long while yet. (Goes up.)