Harry._ It's something too awful.

_Dolly._ Oh, it isn't. Not at all. Not at all. [_Goes up to the desk,
brings down about ten more bills with great affected cheerfulness._]
There! You see, it's nothing.

_Harry._ [_Hastily looking at the totals._] Nothing? You call these
nothing!!?

_Dolly._ Nothing to speak about--nothing awful!

_Harry._ Good heavens! How any woman with the least care for her
husband, or her home---- [_looking at one total after another_] how any
woman with the least self-respect---- [DOLLY _goes to him, puts her arms
round him, tries to embrace--he repulses her._] No, please. I've had
enough of that old dodge.

_Dolly._ Dodge!

_Harry._ I remember that last two hundred pounds and how you sweedled me
out of it!

_Dolly._ Sweedled?

_Harry._ Yes! Sweedled!

_Dolly._ There's no such word!

_Harry._ No, but there's the thing! As most husbands know. [_Referring
to one bill after another, picking out items._] Lace coat, hand-made!
En-tout-cas, studded cabochons of lapis lazuli--studded
cabochons--studded cabochons!

_Dolly._ [_Has quietly seated herself, and is looking at the ceiling._]
Couldn't you manage to pitch your voice in rather a softer key?

_Harry._ [_Comes angrily down to her, bills in hand, speaks in a
whisper, very rapidly and fiercely._] Yes! And I say that a woman who
goes and runs up bills like these, [_dashing the back of one hand
against the bills in the other_] while her husband is smoking threepenny
cigars, will very soon bring herself and him to one of those new
palatial workhouses where, thank heaven, the cuisine and appointments
are now organized with a view of providing persons of your tastes with
every luxury at the ratepayers' expense. [_Returns angrily to the bills,
turns them over._] Irish lace bolero! [_Turns to another._] Fur motor
coat, fifty-five guineas----

_Dolly._ [_Calmly gazing at the ceiling._] You told me to look as smart
as Mrs. Colefield.

_Harry._ Not at that price! If I'd known what that motor tour would cost
by Jove! I'd----

_Dolly._ You're getting noisy again. You'll wake my father.

_Harry._ He ought to be waked! He ought to know what his daughter is
saddling me with.

_Dolly._ Very well, if you don't care how shabby I look----

_Harry._ Shabby! [_Referring to bills._] Lace demi-toilette! Point de
Venise lace Directoire coat! Shabby?

_Dolly._ My dear Harry, do you suppose we shall ever agree as to what
constitutes shabbiness?

_