VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days.
You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round
him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates
poor people.

RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!

VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual
instability.

RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She
goes to him and--) Oh, Lord, look out!

VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?

RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW
comes in.)

(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and
whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly
style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him
look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State
which he undoubtedly is.)

CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?

RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at
breakfasts?

CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?