Viola [pleadingly]. But not till then; that gives us two more days. You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor—and father hates poor people.
Richard [viciously]. Damn money!
Viola [thoughtfully]. I think that's what father means by spiritual instability.
Richard. Viola! [He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to him and—] Oh, Lord, look out!
Viola [reaching across to the mantelpiece]. Matches?
Richard. Thanks very much. [He lights his pipe as Robert Crawshaw comes in. Crawshaw is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed mustache and whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly is.]
Crawshaw. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
Richard. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at breakfasts?
Crawshaw. Viola, where's your mother?
Viola [making for the door]. I don't know, father; do you want her?