Whi. (brandishing stick). Yes, sir. Promise at once, or nothing shall prevent me from urging this young lady’s natural protector to inflict on you the condign punishment you so richly deserve. (Hands the stick to Mr. Effingham, and retires.)
Mr. Eff. (brandishing stick). You speak nobly, sir. I am an old, old man, but I am yet hale and tough as hickory. I have a brave and stalwart son, and it is to his hand I confide the task of avenging the insult offered to his outraged family! (Hands the stick to Bulstrode.)
Bul. (gloomily). What prevents me from flying at his throat? What prevents me from whipping him as I would whip a cur? Tell me, somebody, what is it holds me back?
Car. I will tell you—it is mercy.
Bul. It is! (Throwing away stick.) I give you your life!
Mrs. Eff. My lion-hearted boy!
Tom. Do you know that you are labouring under some surprising and unaccountable delusion?
Mrs. Eff. Delusion, sir!
Bul. Delusion! Ha! ha!
Car. (kneeling). No, Arthur, no—this is no delusion, for see, I have your letters. (Feeling for them.) No, they are with my solicitor.