you. I wanted to. (_Shakes hands with_ Tranto.)

MRS. CULVER. What's the matter, Arthur?

CULVER. Everything.

MRS. CULVER (_alarmed, but carefully coaxing_). Why are you wearing your
velvet coat? (_To_ Tranto.) He always puts on his velvet coat instead of
dressing when something's gone wrong. (_To_ Mr. Culver.) Have you got
neuralgia again?

CULVER. I don't think so.

MRS. CULVER. But surely you must know! You look terribly pale.

CULVER. The effect of the velvet coat, my dear--nicely calculated in
advance.

MRS. CULVER (_darting at him, holding him by the shoulders, and then
kissing him violently. With an intonation of affectionate protest_).
Darling!

JOHN. Oh! I say, mater, look here!

MRS. CULVER (_to_ Culver, _still holding him_). I'm very annoyed with
you. It's perfectly absurd the way you work. (_To_ Tranto.) Do you know
he was at the office all day Christmas Day and all day Boxing Day? (_To_
Culver.) You really must take a holiday.

CULVER. But what about the war, darling?