Sir John has risen. His manner has changed. His look is altered. You can see him alter it. It is now that of a statesman. The technical details given above have gone to his head. He can't stop.
He goes on: "They will force a closure on the second reading, go into committee, come out of it again, redivide, subdivide and force us to bring down the estimates."
While Sir John speaks, Lady Cicely's manner has been that of utter weariness. She has picked up the London Times and thrown it aside; taken up a copy of Punch and let it fall with a thud to the floor, looked idly at a piece of music and decided, evidently, not to sing it. Sir John runs out of technical terms and stops.
The dialogue has clearly brought out the following points: Sir John is in the House of Commons. Lady Cicely is not. Sir John is twenty-five years older than Lady Cicely. He doesn't see—isn't he a fool, when everybody in the gallery can see it?—that his parliamentary work is meaningless to her, that her life is insufficient. That's it. Lady Cicely is being "starved." All that she has is money, position, clothes, and jewelry. These things starve any woman. They cramp her. That's what makes problem plays.
Lady Cicely speaks, very quietly, "Are you taking Mr. Harding with you?"
"Why?"
"Nothing. I thought perhaps I might ask him to take me to the opera. Puffi is to sing."
"Do, pray do. Take Harding with you by all means. Poor boy, do take him with you."
Sir John pauses. He looks at Lady Cicely very quietly for a moment. He goes on with a slight change in his voice.
"Do you know, Cicely, I've been rather troubled about Harding lately. There's something the matter with the boy, something wrong."