If you think you can make me forgive Dickie by telling me that you were a wicked old thing yourself in your youth, I may as well tell you at once that it won’t wash. MRS. GOLIGHTLY. [_Outraged._] What are you talking about, my dear? PENELOPE. Well, I’ve noticed that when a woman discovers that her husband has been unfaithful, her male relations invariably try to console her by telling her how shockingly they’ve treated their own wives. GOLIGHTLY. My dear, I was going to confess nothing of the sort. I never confess. PENELOPE. Of course, if it were the other way about, and mamma had kicked over the traces a little.... MRS. GOLIGHTLY. Darling, can you see me performing an acrobatic feat of that character? PENELOPE. Go on, papa. GOLIGHTLY. I think you’ve treated Dickie shamefully. PENELOPE. [_Astounded._] I? GOLIGHTLY. If your mother had behaved to me as you’ve behaved to Dickie, I should certainly have taken to drink. PENELOPE. But I’ve been a perfect angel. I’ve simply worshipped the ground he walked on. I’ve loved him as no man was ever loved before. GOLIGHTLY. No man could stand it. PENELOPE. Papa, what do you mean? GOLIGHTLY. My dear, you’ve loved him morning, noon, and night. You’ve loved him when he talked, and you’ve loved him when he was silent. You’ve loved him walking, you’ve loved him eating, you’ve loved him sleeping. He’s never been able to escape from your love. PENELOPE. But I couldn’t help it. GOLIGHTLY. You need not have shown it. PENELOPE. And do you mean to say that justifies him in philandering with Ada Fergusson? GOLIGHTLY. It excuses him. PENELOPE. What beasts men must be! GOLIGHTLY. No; but strange as it may seem to you, they’re human beings. When you were a child you doted on strawberry ices. PENELOPE. I dote on them still. GOLIGHTLY. Would you like to eat strawberry ice for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner every day for a month? PENELOPE. Good heavens! the thought fills me with horror. GOLIGHTLY. Poor Dickie has lived on strawberry ice for five years. It’s been his only means of sustenance. PENELOPE. [_With consternation._] Oh! GOLIGHTLY. You’ve never let him go out without coming into the hall to put on his hat and kiss him good-bye; he’s never come into the house without you running down to help him off with his coat and kiss him welcome. When he sat down after breakfast in the morning to read his paper and smoke his pipe, I’ve seen you sit down on the arm of his chair and put your arm round his neck. BARLOW. [_Outraged._] Penelope! PENELOPE. Do you think it was very awful? BARLOW. My dear child! PENELOPE. [_To_ BEADSWORTH.] Did Mrs. Beadsworth never sit on the arm of your chair when you were smoking your pipe? BEADSWORTH. I must confess I’m thankful my wife occupied those moments in attending to her household duties. PENELOPE. You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise with me, and you’re perfectly brutal to me. BARLOW.