MAGGIE (_taking pot off him as he moves to fire-place with
it_). You'll not do owt of sort. Father likes his liquids
strong.

WILLIE (_down_ R. _of table_). A piece of pork pie now,
Mr. Hobson?

HOBSON (_groaning_). Pork pie!

MAGGIE (_sharply_). You'll be sociable now you're here, I
hope. (_She pours tea at table, top end_.)

HOBSON. It wasn't sociability that brought me, Maggie.

MAGGIE. What was it, then?

HOBSON. Maggie, I'm in disgrace. A sore and sad misfortune's
fallen on me.

MAGGIE (_cutting_). Happen a piece of wedding cake 'ull do
you good.

HOBSON (_shuddering_). It's sweet.

MAGGIE. That's natural in cake.

(MAGGIE _sits in chair above table_.)

HOBSON. I've gotten such a head.