Mrs. Eff. My crushed and broken boy!
Bul. In such a home as this I feel I could lay the warp and woof of a Great Life. In the dingy purlieus of Somers Town life has no warp—no woof.
Tom. A kind of shoddy.
All. Sir!
Tom. Nothing—I didn’t speak. (They turn back as before.) (Aside.) Extraordinary family!
Mrs Eff. If there is one class of young men I detest beyond another, it is the class of young men who see a humorous side to everything.
Car. In the eyes of such a one the doughtiest deeds are the subject of a sneer—the noblest thoughts, the peg on which to hang a parody.
Bul. Go to, sir—go to.
Eff. (to Mrs. Eff.). I am an aged man—let me play the peacemaker. Remember, you are not as others are—you are a thing of thought—an abstraction. You must not expect the young man of average tastes to grasp you.