a daughter's feelings.

CRAVEN (huffed). It evidently doesn't make much difference to you,
Sylvia.

SYLVIA. I'm not going to be sentimental over it, Dad, you may bet.
(Coming to Craven.) Besides, I knew it was nonsense all along.
(Petting him.) Poor dear old Dad! why should your days be numbered any
more than any one else's? (He pats her cheek, mollified. Julia
impatiently turns away from them.) Come to the smoking room, and let's
see what you can do after teetotalling for a year.

CRAVEN (playfully). Vulgar little girl! (He pinches her ear.) Shall we
come, Jo! You'll be the better for a pick-me-up after all this
emotion.

CUTHBERTSON. I'm not ashamed of it, Dan. It has done me good. (He goes
up to the table and shakes his fist at the bust over the mantelpiece.)
It would do you good too if you had eyes and ears to take it in.

CRAVEN (astonished). Who?

SYLVIA. Why, good old Henrik, of course.

CRAVEN (puzzled). Henrik?

CUTHBERTSON (impatiently). Ibsen, man: Ibsen. (He goes out by the
staircase door followed by Sylvia, who kisses her hand to the bust as
she passes. Craven stares blankly after her, and then up at the bust.
Giving the problem up as insoluble, he shakes his head and follows