MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow. EDWARD. Good-night, Mother. MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up affectionately_. MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired. EDWARD. No, I'm not. MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say? EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear. _He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._ MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy. _Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving, healthy. That is her history._ MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd taken a chill walking round the garden. MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right. MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have? MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No. MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on? MR. VOYSEY. Nothing. MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite feverish. MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady. MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench. HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._ HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish clearing? MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._] Now who's careless! PHOEBE _comes into the room_. HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr. Hugh. MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape. HONOR. Papa! MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right. HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey? And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill. _Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY _stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.