Heavyweight: (appealingly): I’m sure there’s an explanation, dear. Won’t you tell me?
Agatha (laughing uneasily): Well, er, I suppose ... where did you find them? (He silently points to the book.) I don’t know. I suppose I must have put them there accidentally, from my table.... It comes of keeping those horrible accounts for you.
Heavyweight (sadly): But the contents, Agatha, dear.
Agatha (sharply): You’ve read them?
Heavyweight: I was unable to help reading them. They were lying open among the cheques. (Tenderly): Won’t you explain?
Agatha (with the modern mixture of frankness and impatience): Of course, there’s an explanation, papa. You surely don’t suppose that, with a drunken imbecile for a husband, I could do entirely without sympathy and affection?
Heavyweight (apprehensively): Then—you were—unfaithful?
Agatha (swiftly): But we’re going to be married, as soon as the decree is made absolute.
Heavyweight (pitifully): I’m sure, my dear, that that was your intention; but, as a clergyman——
Agatha (anxious): You won’t tell anyone——?