MRS. EMPTAGE. But I must have every support; I am unequal to it otherwise. Who will fetch her upstairs? Fletcher, dear!—— SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. In your establishment! Singularly inappropriate! MRS. EMPTAGE. [_Turning to_ JUSTINA.] Justina—— JUSTINA. No thanks, ma. MRS. EMPTAGE. Brutes, all of you! [_She hurries out._ JUSTINA. Confound her! CLAUDE. I shall submit to none of her airs. What _is_ a bishop? SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Why does she select this occasion——? JUSTINA. It’s nearly ten years since she washed her hands of us. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Exactly eleven years have elapsed since my sister Harriet placed it out of my power to continue on a footing of brotherly intercourse with her. CLAUDE. [_To_ MRS. TWELVES, _in a whisper_.] I know the story. JUSTINA. [_To him._] Sssh! SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Her behaviour on that one memorable afternoon proved that her marriage to a dignitary of the Church was something worse than a fluke—a sacrilege. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Quietly to_ CLAUDE.] What is it? CLAUDE. [_Quietly to her._] She called him a Bore. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Going to_ JUSTINA.] Do you think I could steal downstairs and get away? She used to tell me I was an empty-headed little fool. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. Outrageous! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. And predicted I should end badly. JUSTINA. Well, you haven’t. MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. No, but there’s time, she’d say. [_Going towards the doors._] I’m off. JUSTINA. Sneak! MRS. QUINTON TWELVES. [_Returning hastily._] They’re coming up! JUSTINA. Let ’em! MRS. CLOYS _enters, and stands surveying the room_. MRS. EMPTAGE _follows her_. MRS. CLOYS _is about fifty-three, handsome, dignified in bearing, richly but soberly dressed, in manner a mixture of sweetness and acerbity_. MRS. CLOYS. Justina—is it? JUSTINA. [_Going to her._] How do you do, Aunt Harriet? MRS. CLOYS. [_Kissing her, then eyeing her keenly._] H’m! _you’re_ not married yet, I believe? JUSTINA. No, I haven’t the slightest inclination that way. MRS. CLOYS. Oh, my dear, you still tell fibs, then?