Accounts. I have decided to refuse the title, and I shall refuse it.
_Nothing will induce me to accept it_. Do I make myself clear, or
(_smiling affectionately_) am I lost in a mist of words?

MRS. CULVER (_suddenly furious_). You are a brute. You always were. You
never think of anybody but yourself. My life has been one long
sacrifice, and you know it perfectly well. Perfectly well! You talk
about _your_ work. What about my work? Why! You'd be utterly useless
without me. You can't even look after your own collars. Could you go
down to your ridiculous office without a collar? I've done everything
for you, everything! And now! (_Weeping_). I can't even be called 'my
lady.' I only wanted to hear the parlourmaid call me 'my lady.' It seems
a simple enough thing--

CULVER (_persuasively and softly, trying to seize her_). You divine
little snob!

MRS. CULVER (_in a supreme, blazing outbreak escaping him_). Let me
alone! I told you at the start I should never give way. And I never
will. Never! If you send that letter of refusal, do you know what I
shall do? I shall go and see the War Cabinet myself. I shall tell them
you don't mean it. I'll make the most horrible scandal.... When I think
of the Duke of Wellington--

CULVER (_surprised and alarmed_). The Duke of Wellington?

MRS. CULVER (_drawing herself up at the door, L_). The Duke of
Wellington didn't refuse a title! Hildegarde shall sleep in our room,
and you can have hers! (_Exit violently, L_.)