Oliver. It's all very fine, mother, but he made fools of us.
Mrs. Dermott. He didn't do anything of the sort—he only meant it kindly—going to all that trouble, too (she weeps again), with one foot in the grave.
Bobbie. And the other in the Green Hart.
Joyce. He's not going to die. He said he meant to live to eighty-two.
Mrs. Dermott. Eighty-three, I think, was the age, dear, but that's just another instance of his dear unselfishness—so that you wouldn't worry over him. I know! I'm going up to my room—you've upset me for the rest of the day. Call me the very moment he comes. Oh, how could you? How could you be so unkind? Oh, just look at my nose, it's all red and shiny.
(Exit upstairs. Sylvia follows, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking after her. There is silence for a moment.)
Bobbie. That's torn it.
Joyce. Now what are we to do?
Sylvia (moving down). I know. (At head of table.)
Oliver. What, then?