A proper daughter would have jumped--aye, skipped like a
calf by the cedars of Lebanon--at the thought of being helpful to
her father.
ALICE. Did Maggie skip?
HOBSON. She's a bit ancient for skipping exercise, is Maggie; but
she's coming round to reconcilement with the thought of living
here, and that is more than you are doing, Alice, isn't it? Eh?
Are you willing to come?
ALICE (_sullenly_). No.
HOBSON. Or you, Vickey?
VICKEY. It's my child, father. I--
HOBSON. Never mind what it is. Are you coming or not?
VICKEY. No.
HOBSON. Then you that aren't willing can leave me to talk with
them that are.
ALICE. Do you mean that we're to go?
HOBSON. I understand you've homes to go to.
ALICE. Oh, father!
HOBSON. Open the door for them, Will.
(WILL _rises, crosses, and opens door_. ALICE _and_
VICKEY _stare in silent anger. Then_ ALICE _sweeps
to her gloves on the table_.)
ALICE. Vickey!
(ALICE _moves on towards door_.)
VICKEY. Well, I don't know!
MAGGIE (_from her chair by the fire-place_). We'll be glad
to see you here at tea-time on a Sunday afternoon if you'll
condescend to come sometimes.
VICKEY. Beggars on horseback.
(VICKEY _and_ ALICE _pass out_.)
WILL (_closing door_).
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