Crawshaw. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. [Clearing his throat.] It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships.
Richard [carelessly]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
Enter Margaret. Margaret has been in love with Robert Crawshaw for twenty-five years, the last twenty-four years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.
Margaret. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all right.
Richard. Excellent, thank you.
Margaret. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
Crawshaw [obviously uncomfortable]. Yes—er—h'r'm—Richard—er—what are your—er—plans?
Richard. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?
Margaret. Of course not. [To Robert.] Are you, dear?
Crawshaw. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can leave Richard here with the paper.