Clear away.
MRS. TERENCE (_crossing to the table, under her breath_): All
right, you sour-faced old hag.
HUBERT _drops his pipe_. MRS. BRAMSON _winces_ and looks
away. MRS. TERENCE clears the table.
HUBERT (_to_ OLIVIA): What--what was that she said?
MRS. TERENCE: She 'eard. And then she 'as to save 'er face and pretend
she 'asn't. She knows nobody but me'd stay with 'er a day if I went.
MRS. BRAMSON: She oughtn't to talk to me like that. I know she steals
my sugar.
MRS. TERENCE: That's a living lie. (_Going round to her_) Here are
your roses.
MRS. BRAMSON: You've cut them too young. I knew you would.
MRS. TERENCE (_taking up her tray and starting for the kitchen_):
Then you come out and pick the ones you want, and you'll only 'ave
yourself to blame.
MRS. BRAMSON: That's a nice way to talk to an invalid.
MRS. TERENCE: If you're an invalid, I'm the Prince of Wales.
_She goes back into the kitchen_.
OLIVIA: Would you like me to read some more?
BRAMSON: No. I'm upset for the day now. I'd better see she does pick
the right roses.
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