MRS. EMPTAGE. [_Advancing to_ MRS. CLOYS.] I hope you’re quite satisfied, Harriet. You came here, after these many years, on purpose to witness this——[MRS. CLOYS _rises_]—to see disgrace and ruin brought on me and my family. MRS. CLOYS. Muriel, how dare you say it? MRS. EMPTAGE. I’m only a widow! Everybody is entitled to stab at me! MRS. CLOYS. [_Turning away._] I’ll not listen to you! MRS. EMPTAGE. [_Weeping._] Oh, oh, oh! how glad our friends will be! [_Going towards the door._] Here’s a triumph for our friends! JUSTINA. [_Following her._] Mother—— MRS. EMPTAGE. [_Pushing her aside._] Go away! I don’t want you near me! JUSTINA. Ho! MRS. EMPTAGE. Bristow shall attend on me. I shall lie down on my bed. I shall have my corsets taken off—— [_She disappears._ MRS. CLOYS. [_Going towards the door._] Muriel——! [_She goes out, following_ MRS. EMPTAGE. JUSTINA. [_With a grating laugh._] That’s ma all over; she always goes through this process when there’s a family crisis. [_To_ THEOPHILA.] Do you remember, Phil? THEOPHILA. [_Stonily._] What? JUSTINA. Directly the news of poor pa’s death came, ma took off her corsets. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. [_Rising._] I shall go out; people shall see me walking boldly through the streets: Portland Place—Regent Street—[_in agitation_]—Fletcher Portwood, with his head up—his head up, they’ll say. [_He paces the room, and comes upon_ CLAUDE, _who is sitting at the writing-table, writing a telegram, his eyes bolting and a generally vacuous expression on his face_.] And you! when are you going to do something in the world besides idling, and loafing, and living upon your mother——? CLAUDE. [_Rising, disconcerted._] What’s that to do with it? SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Do with it? Why, at eighteen I was earning twenty shillings a week, and maintaining myself. Now look at the position I have achieved, from sheer brain-force! [_To_ THEOPHILA.] I shall not turn my back on you, my poor little girl; don’t be frightened of that. You were always my favourite niece—— JUSTINA. [_Laughing, a little wildly._] Ha, ha, ha, ha! SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. I beg your pardon, ’Tina; I’ve no favourites. Can I buy you anything, either of you, while I’m out? I may look in here again before I go down to the House. The finest assembly of gentlemen in the world. No patterns, or new music, wanted—eh?