When he does anything right, hes your son. When he does
anything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him?
GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you.
MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort,
at all events.
GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of the
river for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and
paces the room distractedly].
MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand?
GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York.
Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice
thing, isnt it?
MRS GILBEY. What for?
GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do _I_ know what
for?
MRS GILBEY. What does he say?
GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles]
This is what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had
to follow me across the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day.
I am afraid he is incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels
that this last escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think,
myself, that Bobby ought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve
a certain degree of reprobation." "As you may imagine"! And we know
no more about it than the babe unborn.
MRS GILBEY. What else does he say?
GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame
himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive
formality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had
better be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer
on visiting terms.
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