Don't say "this young woman," mother dear--it's slightly
vulgar. It isn't for me to compromise Anabel by admitting such a
thing, you know.
MRS. BARLOW. Do you ask me to call her Anabel? I won't.
GERALD. Then say "this person," mother. It's more becoming.
MRS. BARLOW. I didn't come to speak to you, Gerald. I know you. I
came to speak to this young woman.
GERALD. "Person," mother.--Will you curtsey, Anabel? And I'll twist
my handkerchief. We shall make a Cruikshank drawing, if mother makes
her hair a little more slovenly.
MRS. BARLOW. You and Gerald were together for some time?
GERALD. Three years, off and on, mother.
MRS. BARLOW. And then you suddenly dropped my son, and went away?
GERALD. To Norway, mother--so I have gathered.
MRS. BARLOW. And now you have come back because that last one died?
GERALD. Is he dead, Anabel? How did he die?
ANABEL. He was killed on the ice.
GERALD. Oh, God!
MRS. BARLOW. Now, having had your fill of tragedy, you have come back
to be demure and to marry Gerald. Does he thank you?
GERALD. You must listen outside the door, mother, to find that out.
MRS. BARLOW. Well, it's your own affair.
GERALD. What a lame summing up, mother!--quite unworthy of you.
ANABEL. What did you wish to say to me, Mrs. Barlow? Please say it.
MRS. BARLOW. What did I wish to say! Ay, what did I wish to say!
What is the use of my saying anything? What am I but a buffoon and
a slovenly caricature in the family?
GERALD.
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