AGNUS (_seizing her wrists_) You don’t care for anybody else? [_Fanny turns away._ AGNUS (_madly_) Say you don’t! Say you don’t! FANNY (_impatiently_) No! But I’ll try to—hereafter. Let me go. You’re making a _scene_! (_Wrenches herself away and goes out; he follows_) ONFROY (_viciously_) He needs a guardian. (_Points to laboratory_) He leaves his wits in there: hat-checks his brains. MRS. FELIX But he hat-checks _more_ brains than all of us carry around everywhere. ONFROY It’s damnable! (_At the window_) Here he comes back—you win. It’s written all over his face. AGNUS (_enters again_) She’s given me time to think it over. (_To Onfroy_) She’s gone on to see Olive. ONFROY (_to Magnus_) Yes, since you long-distanced, Olive’s worried everybody in the house nearly to death for fear her luncheon wouldn’t be grand enough for you New Yorkers. I told her: “Olive, when an artist entertains business men, he condescends—” MAGNUS A favorite word of coxcombs. (_He goes toward door_) Tromper included? ONFROY (_making a face_) Oh, I suppose so. MAGNUS Tromper! TROMPER (_swelling with righteous wrath and the desire to say “I’m as good as you are” but afraid to insult Magnus’s son-in-law_) I’ll eat at the Club here—thank you. (_Stalks forward in dignity_) MAGNUS Tromper! (_Tromper is immediately extinguished_) Come along! [_They go out._ ONFROY (_to Judge Critty_) Olive’s expecting you, too. Don’t mind what I said. Go ahead. Poo-bah! JUDGE CRITTY I take you with the usual salt, Onfroy. (_Recovers his dignity by having thus made light of Onfroy_) Professor! VANILLITY (_to Agnus_) My dear lad—I— JUDGE CRITTY Tom! [_Vanillity, feeling very wretched, shakes Agnus’s hand. As the Judge’s back is turned, he shakes his head vigorously. They go out._ FANNY (_outside_) Mother, are you coming! MRS. FELIX (_to Onfroy, hurriedly_) She’ll come back if I stay. Argue the boy out of it—do. Addington, listen to Noel. (_She goes_) ONFROY (_alone with Agnus_) Now, you bally ass; you Simon Simple; you Babe-in-the-Wood; you Hans Clodhopper; you Little Claus; you—you everything that is asinine—listen to me; if you accept, I’ll never speak to you again! AGNUS And—if I don’t—_she won’t!_ ONFROY More than that, you Lilliputian brain-storm, I’ll publish your infamy in every medical and scientific journal—in every newspaper and magazine, too, not controlled by this money-mad crew. You!—the biggest man in science—to make a nigger-slave of yourself for jews-harps and frill-fralls! Go part your hair in the middle and comb it over your forehead! You’ve got a forehead under false pretences. Your hair ought to grow into your eyes. Your eyes should close together like a smelt’s. You ought to have a chin running due south. Your head ought to look like a chipmunk’s or like a Bartlett pear.—Bah! AGNUS Life’s nothing without her? ONFROY