OTOVER. What! The numskull said there was something wrong with my house!
LADY UTTERWORD. I said Hastings said it; and he is not in the least a numskull.
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. What's wrong with my house?
LADY UTTERWORD. Just what is wrong with a ship, papa. Wasn't it clever of Hastings to see that?
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The man's a fool. There's nothing wrong with a ship.
LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, there is.
MRS HUSHABYE. But what is it? Don't be aggravating, Addy.
LADY UTTERWORD. Guess.
HECTOR. Demons. Daughters of the witch of Zanzibar. Demons.
LADY UTTERWORD. Not a bit. I assure you, all this house needs to make it a sensible, healthy, pleasant house, with good appetites and sound sleep in it, is horses.
MRS HUSHABYE. Horses! What rubbish!
LADY UTTERWORD. Yes: horses. Why have we never been able to let this house? Because there are no proper stables. Go anywhere in England where there are natural, wholesome, contented, and really nice English people; and what do you always find? That the stables are the real centre of the household; and that if any visitor wants to play the piano the whole room has to be upset before it can be opened, there are so many things piled on it. I never lived until I learned to ride; and I shall never ride really well because I didn't begin as a child. There are only two classes in good society in England: the equestrian classes and the neurotic classes. It isn't mere convention: everybody can see that the people who hunt are the right people and the people who don't are the wrong ones.
CAPTAIN SHO
