— What's going on?
— They're forcing me into a morning coat.
— He has no say in it?
— No, he doesn't. And nor do you.
— And are we to do all this without telling Papa? Isn't that rather underhand?
— There can be too much truth in any relationship.
— Robert, dear, I don't mean to sound harsh...
— You may not mean to, but I bet you will.
— Twenty-four years ago you marries Cora, against my wishes, for her money. Give it away now, what was the point of your peculiar marriage in the first place?
— If I were to tell you she'd made me very happy, would that stretch belief?
— It's not why you chose her...
— Then there's no answer.
— Yes, there is, and it's a simple one. The entail must be smashed in its entirety and Mary recognised as heiress of all.
— There's nothing we can do about the title.
— No. She can't have the title, but she can have your money. And the estate. I didn't run Downtown for 30 years to see it go lock, stock and barrel to a stranger from God knows where.
Lord Merton: — Who were those men measuring on the green as we came past?
Lady Mary Talbot: — They're building the dais for the queen at the parade.
Lord Merton: — Oh, how exciting.
Lady Isobel Merton: — Seems rather a waste of money.
Violet Crawley: — Oh, here we go.
Cora Crawley: — Isn't that what the monarchy's for? To brighten the lives of the nation with stateliness and glamour?
— I was only going to say that Sybil is entitled to her opinions.
— No, she isn't until she is married, then her husband will tell her what her opinions are.
— I suspect she's quite a tough nut.
— And I'm quite a tough nutcracker.
— If we don't respect the past, we'll find it harder to build our future.
— Where did you read that?
— I made it up. I thought it was rather good.
— It's too good. One thing we don't want is a poet in the family.
— Would it be so bad?
— The only poet peer I am familiar with is Lord Byron. And I presume you all know how that ended.
— Then, will you take young Pegg? He impressed me so favourably.
— I wonder your halo doesn't grow heavy. It must be like wearing a tiara round the clock.
— Will you help him? His mother would be very grateful. And so would I.
— Yes, but your gratitude never seems too last. I've no sooner said yes than you come back with another request.
Well, if we only had moral thoughts, what would the poor churchmen find to do?
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