HOBSON. Why not? I thought you'd sense enough to know. But if you
want the brutal truth, you're past the marrying age. You're a
proper old maid, Maggie, if ever there was one.

MAGGIE. I'm thirty.

HOBSON (_facing her_). Aye, thirty and shelved. Well, all
the women can't get husbands. But you others, now. I've told you.
I'll have less uppishness from you or else I'll shove you off my
hands on to some other men. You can just choose which way you
like. (_He picks up hat and makes for door_.)

MAGGIE. One o'clock dinner, father.

HOBSON. See here, Maggie,--(_back again down to in front of
desk_)--I set the hours at this house. It's one o'clock dinner
because I say it is, and not because you do.

MAGGIE. Yes, father.

HOBSON. So long as that's clear I'll go. (_He is by door_.)
Oh no, I won't. Mrs. Hepworth's getting out of her carriage.

(_He puts hat on counter again_. MAGGIE _rises and opens
door. Enter_ MRS. HEPWORTH, _an old lady with a curt manner
and good clothes_.)

Good morning, Mrs. Hepworth. What a lovely day. (_He
crosses_ R. _and places chair_.)