RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!
VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual
instability.
RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She
goes to him and--) Oh, Lord, look out!
VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?
RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW
comes in.)
(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and
whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly
style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him
look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State
which he undoubtedly is.)
CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at
breakfasts?
CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?
VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her?
CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.
VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.]
(RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.)
CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk).
Richard, why don't you get something to do?
RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.
CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--
work in the House.
RICHARD (a trifle cool).
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