He recoils from the bath with a violent
start]._ Oh Lord! My brain's gone. _[Calling piteously]_
Chickabiddy! _[He staggers down to the writing table]._
THE MAN. _[coming out of the bath, pistol in hand]_ Another sound;
and youre a dead man.
TARLETON. _[braced]_ Am I? Well, youre a live one: thats one
comfort. I thought you were a ghost. _[He sits down, quite
undisturbed by the pistol]_ Who are you; and what the devil were you
doing in my new Turkish bath?
THE MAN. _[with tragic intensity]_ I am the son of Lucinda Titmus.
TARLETON. _[the name conveying nothing to him]_ Indeed? And how is
she? Quite well, I hope, eh?
THE MAN. She is dead. Dead, my God! and youre alive.
TARLETON. _[unimpressed by the tragedy, but sympathetic]_ Oh! Lost
your mother? Thats sad. I'm sorry. But we cant all have the luck to
survive our mothers, and be nursed out of the world by the hands that
nursed us into it.
THE MAN. Much you care, damn you!
TARLETON. Oh, dont cut up rough. Face it like a man. You see I
didnt know your mother; but Ive no doubt she was an excellent woman.
THE MAN. Not know her! Do you dare to stand there by her open grave
and deny that you knew her?
TARLETON. _[trying to recollect]_ What did you say her name was?
THE MAN.
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