Mother. Miss—if you don’t mind.
Lise. Your daughter
Mother. Yes, I have a daughter, even though I’m only a “Miss,” and indeed that happens to many of us, and I’m not a bit ashamed of it. But what’s it all about?
Lise. The fact is, I’m commissioned to ask you if Miss Helen can join in an excursion which some visitors have got up.
Mother. Hasn’t Helen herself answered you?
Lise. Yes; she has very properly answered that I should address myself to you.
Mother. That wasn’t a straightforward answer. Helen, my child, do you want to join a party to which your mother isn’t invited?
Daughter. Yes, if you allow it.
Mother. If I allow it! How can I decide what a big girl like you is to do? You yourself must tell the young lady what you want; if you want to leave your mother alone in disgrace, while you gad about and have a good time; if you want people to ask after mamma, and for you to have to try and wriggle out of the answer: “She has been left out of the invitation, because and because and because.” Now say what you really want to do.
Lise. My dear lady, don’t let’s beat about the bush. I know perfectly well the view Helen takes of this business, and I also know your method of getting her to make that particular answer which happens to suit you. If you are as fond of your daughter as you say you are, you ought to wish what is best for her, even though it might be humiliating for you.