Mrs. Phillimore. The mother Dudley is as common as a charwoman, and not nearly as clean.
Philip. [Sighing, his own feelings, as usual, to the fore.] Ah! I certainly am fatigued!
Cynthia begins to slowly crush the newspaper she has been reading with both hands, as if the effort of self-repression were too much for her.
Miss Heneage. [Making the best of a gloomy future.] We shall have to ask the Dudleys sooner or later to dine, Mary—because of the elder girl's marriage to that dissolute French Marquis.
Mrs. Phillimore. [Plaintively.] I don't like common people any more than I like common cats, and of course in my time—
Miss Heneage. I think I shall include the Dudleys.
Mrs. Phillimore. You think you'll include the Dudleys?
Miss Heneage. Yes, I think I will include the Dudleys!
Here Cynthia's control breaks down. Driven desperate by their chatter, she has slowly rolled her newspaper into a ball, and at this point tosses it violently to the floor and bursts into hysterical laughter.
Mrs. Phillimore. Why, my dear Cynthia—Compose yourself.