curtains and contemplates him with patient obstinacy. He
continues, grumbling.] An English clergyman's daughter should be
able to live quite respectably and comfortably on an allowance of
œ150 a year, wrung with great difficulty from the domestic
budget.

ERMYNTRUDE. You are not a common clergyman: you are an
archdeacon.

THE ARCHDEACON [angrily]. That does not affect my emoluments to
the extent of enabling me to support a daughter whose
extravagance would disgrace a royal personage. [Scrambling to his
feet and scolding at her.] What do you mean by it, Miss?

ERMYNTRUDE. Oh really, father! Miss! Is that the way to talk to a
widow?

THE ARCHDEACON. Is that the way to talk to a father? Your
marriage was a most disastrous imprudence. It gave you habits
that are absolutely beyond your means--I mean beyond my means:
you have no means. Why did you not marry Matthews: the best
curate I ever had?

ERMYNTRUDE. I wanted to; and you wouldn't let me. You insisted on
my marrying Roosenhonkers-Pipstein.

THE ARCHDEACON. I had to do the best for you, my child.
Roosenhonkers-Pipstein was a millionaire.

ERMYNTRUDE. How did you know he was a millionaire?