(urgently) And if it were your own son in Oxford? (warningly) I know.
(almost speechless) Who are. Incog!
(in the doorway) There's a row on.
What? Where? (he throws a shilling on the table and starts) That's for the chimney. Where? I need mountain air.
(He hurries out through the hall. The whores point. Florry follows, spilling water from her tilted tumbler."