My dear child!... But in common fairness, you can’t put all the blame on me.
Clare.
Well, I shan’t say anything more at present, since you’re going to give me a new frock. (Looking at her hands.) Oh, dear! I wish it were gloves.
Michael.
(With fascinated eyes.) A dozen pair....
Clare.
All right—five and three-quarters. Now then—pins.
Michael.
Pins?
Clare.