Sladder: Ah! So I've got the best of you?
Hippanthigh: Yes, Mr. Sladder. I'm not so clever as you.
Sladder: Glad you admit the point. As for cleverness it isn't that I've so much of that, but I use what I've got. Well, have you anything more to say?
Hippanthigh: Only to appeal to you, Mr. Sladder, on behalf of these poor people.
Sladder: Why. But you admitted one must have business, and that it can't be run like a tea-party. What more do you want?
Hippanthigh: I want you to spare them, Mr. Sladder.
Sladder: Spare them? Spare them? Why, what's the matter with them? I'm not killing them.
Hippanthigh: No, Mr. Sladder, you're not killing them. The mortality among children's a bit on the high side, but I wouldn't say that was entirely due to your bread. There's a good many minor ailments among the grown-up people, it seems to attack their digestion mostly, one can't trace each case to its source; but their health and their teeth aren't what they were when they had the pure wheaten bread.
Sladder: But there is wheat in my bread, prepared by a special process.
Hippanthigh: Ah! It's that special process that does it, I expect.