Mrs. Dot: A Farce

by W. Somerset Maugham

I’m beginning to feel very unwell.

Mrs. Dot.

[Archly.] Wouldn’t you be rather flattered if I really were in love with you?

Blenkinsop.

[Alarmed.] Dot, don’t make these horrible suggestions. You make my flesh creep.

Mrs. Dot.

But you’ve been so cold, you haven’t given me a chance.

Blenkinsop.

Cold! Heaven knows what would have happened if I’d given you any encouragement. I’ve never been able to take my eyes off the ground without finding yours fixed on me with the languishing expression of a dying duck in a thunderstorm. I’ve never been able to go near you without your stroking me as if I were a velvet cushion or a Persian cat. I’ve not eaten a single meal in peace in case you suddenly took it into your head to press my foot under the table.

Mrs. Dot.