James Douglas lies in bed, staring listlessly at the ice sculpture that is all that remains of the love of his life.

His daughter comes to the doorway.
Wimsey: Dad, we need to talk.
James (vaguely): Yes, dear. Later.
Wimsey:
Now, Dad.
Right now.
James (sighing): What is it, Wimsey.
Wimsey:
In the living room. Right now.

The old man slowly gets up from the bed and trudges to the other room after his daughter.
James: Well?
Wimsey: Dad, we all miss Mum, but it’s time to get on with life. You need to get out of bed and stop moping.
James: Oh, Wimsey, nothing seems to matter any more.

Wimsey: Dad, we all love you. And we need you. Losing Mum is hard on all of us, but the way you’ve been acting, it’s as if we’ve lost you too. We need to rebook the opening at the Gallery. It’s more important now than ever - think what a wonderful memorial it will be for Mum.
James: Oh, Wimsey, you don’t know what it’s like for me. It’s so cold in bed without her, I hardly get any sleep.
Wimsey (trying not to roll her eyes): Dad, the reason you’re cold at night is that you’ve been sleeping with that ice statue of Mum!
James: But what else can I do? I can’t put your mother’s statue in the Dynasty museum, it’s not allowed. And I will not have your mother relegated to the back yard with the salvaged junk!
Wimsey: Yes, Dad, I agree. Mortimer and I have been discussing this, and we have an idea I think you’re going to like. Now listen …