people to do it.

MARCHBANKS (tormentedly). Do you think every woman is as
coarse-grained as Miss Garnett?

BURGESS (emphatically). That's quite right, Mr. Morchbanks.
That's quite right. She IS corse-grained.

MORELL (quietly and significantly). Marchbanks!

MARCHBANKS. Yes.

MORELL. How many servants does your father keep?

MARCHBANKS. Oh, I don't know. (He comes back uneasily to the
sofa, as if to get as far as possible from Morell's questioning,
and sits down in great agony of mind, thinking of the paraffin.)

MORELL. (very gravely). So many that you don't know. (More
aggressively.) Anyhow, when there's anything coarse-grained to be
done, you ring the bell and throw it on to somebody else, eh?
That's one of the great facts in YOUR existence, isn't it?

MARCHBANKS. Oh, don't torture me. The one great fact now is that
your wife's beautiful fingers are dabbling in paraffin oil, and
that you are sitting here comfortably preaching about it--
everlasting preaching, preaching, words, words, words.

BURGESS (intensely appreciating this retort). Ha, ha! Devil a
better. (Radiantly.) 'Ad you there, James, straight.