Daniel. Now look here, Anne, you're not to include Sylvia in your fury against the family. She has been perfectly sweet.
Mrs. Dermott. So she ought to be—and the others as well. Such nonsense, I never heard of such a thing. Not being able to take a joke better than that. I don't know what's happened to them, they were such dear good-natured children. They used to make booby traps and apple-pie beds for one another and not mind a bit.
(Mrs. Dermott keeps buttering toast for him, arranging it round
his plate.)
Daniel. But you see, Anne, this perhaps has irritated them more than an apple-pie bed.
Mrs. Dermott. I don't see why, it's just as harmless, and much less trouble.
Daniel. If I had known they were going to take it so badly I should have thought of something else. I have lots of ideas. But even now, when I come to look back over everything, I don't see what else I could have done.
Mrs. Dermott. You're just the kindest old darling in the world and everything, every single thing you have done for us, has been perfect.
Daniel. Dear Anne, don't be absurd. It was nothing, worse than nothing, but I'd given it a lot of thought, and after all it has bucked them up and made them work. They're looking much better in health, too.
Mrs. Dermott. Oh, Danny, I only wish you were better in health. The shadow of your illness just hangs over me like a nightmare. I can't pass a flower shop without thinking of you.
Daniel (puts down knife and fork). But I'm not ill at all. I've no intention of dying until I'm eighty-three or even eighty-four.