_Janet_ (_as before_). He's had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.

_Bully_. Great Powers, a repertory dramatist! And I've insulted him!--me, a
town councillor. (_He has grown white to the lips; this is not easy, but
can be managed._) There'll be a play about me--about us, this house--
everything. But (_passionately_) I'll thwart him yet. Janet, my girl, do
thee write at once and say that I withdraw my opposition to the engagement.

_Janet_ (_dully_). But I don't want the man.

_Bully_, (_hectoring_). Am I your feyther or am I not? I tell you you shall
marry him. And what's more, he shan't find us what he looks for. No, no
(_with rising agitation_), he thinks that because I'm a town councillor I'm
to be made game of, does he? Well, I'll learn him different! (_Glaring
round_) This room--it's got to be changed. And you (_to_ Janet) put on a
short frock, something lively and up-to-date--d' ye hear? At once!

_Mrs. B._ (_as_ Janet _only stares without moving_). Well, I never.

_Bully_. And let's have some books about the place--BERNARD SHAW--

_Janet_ (_icily_). He's a back number now, feyther.

_Bully_. Well, whoever's the latest. Then you must go to plays and dances,
lots of dances. (_Struck with an idea_) Where's David?

[_As he speaks_ David _enters, a tall ungainly youth with spectacles
and a projecting brow._

_David_. Here I yam, feyther.