Bessie. What is there so mad in keeping up hope?
Carvil (Scathing scorn). Not mad! Starving himself to lay money by—for that son. Filling his house with furniture he won't let anyone see—for that son. Advertising in the papers every week, these sixteen years—for that son. Not mad! Boy, he calls him. Boy Harry. His boy Harry. His lost boy Harry. Yah! Let him lose his sight to know what real trouble means. And the boy—the man, I should say—must 've been put away safe in Davy Jones's locker for many a year—drowned—food for fishes—dead.... Stands to reason, or he would have been here before, smelling around the old fool's money. (Shakes Bessie's arm slightly.) Hey?
Bessie. I don't know. May be.
Carvil (Bursting out). Damme if I don't think he ever had a son.
Bessie. Poor man. Perhaps he never had.
Carvil. Ain't that mad enough for you? But I suppose you think it sensible.
Bessie. What does it matter? His talk keeps him up.
Carvil. Aye! And it pleases you. Anything to get away from your poor blind father.... Jabber, jabber—mumble, mumble—till I begin to think you must be as crazy as he is. What do you find to talk about, you two? What's your game?
(During the scene Carvil and Bessie have crossed stage from L. to R. slowly with stoppages.)
Bessie. It's warm. Will you sit out for a while?