C's. M. (suddenly enlightened). A Suck-a-thumb?... you, CONRAD?
C. (desperately). Ay,—from birth!
[Profound silence, as Mother and Son face one another. The knocking is renewed.
C's. M. Oh, this is horrible—it must not be! I'll shoot the bolt and barricade the door.
[CONRAD places himself before it, and addresses his Mother in a tone of incisive irony.
Con. Why, where is all the zeal you showed of late? is't thus that you the Roman Matron play? Trick not a statute of your own devising. Come, your official's waiting—let him in! (C's. M. shrinks back appalled.) So? you refuse!—(throwing open door)—then—enter, Scissorman!
[Enter the Scissorman, masked and in red tights, with his hand upon the hilt of his shears.
The S. (in a passionless tone). Though sorry to create unpleasantness, I claim the thumbs of this young gentleman, which my own eyes have marked between his lips.
C's. M. (frantically). Thou minion of a meddling tyranny, go exercise thy loathsome trade elsewhere!
The S. (civilly). I've duties here that must be first performed.