Capt. G. (Aside.) Good old Jack! (Aloud.) Why, dear?
Mrs. G. He had put his cup down on the ground then, and he literally stepped into it. Some of the tea spirted over my dress—the grey one. I meant to tell you about it before.
Capt. G. (Aside.) There are the makings of a strategist about Jack though his methods are coarse. (Aloud.) You'd better get a new dress, then. (Aside.) Let us pray that that will turn her.
Mrs. G. Oh, it isn't stained in the least. I only thought that I'd tell you. (Returning to letter.) What an extraordinary person! (Reads.) “But need I remind you that you have taken upon yourself a charge of wardship”—what in the world is a charge of wardship?—“which as you yourself know, may end in Consequences”—
Capt. G. (Aside.) It's safest to let em see everything as they come across it; but 'seems to me that there are exceptions to the rule. (Aloud.) I told you that there was nothing to be gained from rearranging my table.
Mrs. G. (Absently.) What does the woman mean? She goes on talking about Consequences—“almost inevitable Consequences” with a capital C—for half a page. (Flushing scarlet.) Oh, good gracious! How abominable!
Capt. G. (Promptly.) Do you think so? Doesn't it show a sort of motherly interest in us? (Aside.) Thank Heaven. Harry always wrapped her meaning up safely! (Aloud.) Is it absolutely necessary to go on with the letter, darling?
Mrs. G. It's impertinent—it's simply horrid. What right has this woman to write in this way to you? She oughtn't to.
Capt. G. When you write to the Deercourt girl, I notice that you generally fill three or four sheets. Can't you let an old woman babble on paper once in a way? She means well.
Mrs. G. I don't care. She shouldn't write, and if she did, you ought to have shown me her letter.