Mrs. Delane: The poor thing.
Mr. Quirke: Gone all to nothing—wore away like a flock of thread. It did not weigh as much as a lamb of two months.
Mrs. Delane: It is likely the Inspector will bring it to Dublin?
Mr. Quirke: The ribs of it streaky with the dint of patent medicines——
Mrs. Delane: I wonder is it to the Petty Sessions you’ll be brought or is it to the Assizes?
Mr. Quirke: I’ll speak up to them. I’ll make my defence. What can the Army expect at fippence a pound?
Mrs. Delane: It is likely there will be no bail allowed?
Mr. Quirke: Would they be wanting me to give them good quality meat out of my own pocket? Is it to encourage them to fight the poor Indians and Africans they would have me? It’s the Anti-Enlisting Societies should pay the fine for me.
Mrs. Delane: It’s not a fine will be put on you, I’m afraid. It’s five years in gaol you will be apt to be getting. Well, I’ll try and be a good neighbour to poor Mrs. Quirke.
(Mr. Quirke, who has been stamping up and down, sits down and weeps. Halvey comes in and stands on one side.)