you I’ll take it.
DICKIE.
Why on earth can’t you take it now?
PENELOPE.
Well, I hate making faces before you.
DICKIE.
But I’ve often seen you make faces.
PENELOPE.
Yes, at you. That’s quite a different thing.
DICKIE.
Now, take it like a good girl.
PENELOPE.
After you’ve gone.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_With great determination._] I’m not going to stir from this room till
you’ve taken it.
PENELOPE.
[_Resigned._] Give it me. Hold my nose, Dickie.
[_She swallows it and makes a face._
Oh, I wish I’d never married you, Dickie.
DICKIE.
It’ll make you feel like one o’clock.
PENELOPE.
I don’t want to feel like one o’clock.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Good-bye. So sorry you’re feeling seedy.
DICKIE.
Good-bye, darling.
PENELOPE.
I hope you’ll have an awfully good time.
[DICKIE _and_ MRS. FERGUSSON _go out_. PENELOPE _springs up, throws
the cushions angrily aside, makes one or two quick steps towards
the door as though to call them back, then stops_.
PENELOPE.
No, I won’t. I won’t.
[_She comes slowly back, then sinks down and bursts into tears._
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
THE SECOND ACT
SCENE: DR. O’FARRELL’S _consulting-room. It is a comfortably
furnished room, with engravings on the walls, photographs in silver
frames, and flowers on the chimney-piece. There is a large desk on
one side, with papers on it, books, and a reading-lamp. There is a
revolving-chair for_ DICKIE _to sit in, and a chair on the other
side of the desk for the patient. On a side table are a microscope,
a stand for test tubes, one or two medicine bottles, a row of large
bottles containing chemicals, and an electric lamp. There is a sofa
without arms for patients to lie upon, and there are two or three
chairs besides. On the shelves are medical books. On a little table
is a pile of “Lancets.”_
DICKIE _is sitting at his desk, with his stethoscope still in his
ears. A patient is standing up, buttoning up his braces. He puts on
his waistcoat and coat as the conversation proceeds. He is a very
timid little man, with a bald head and gold spectacles. He has an
intensely nervous, apologetic manner._
DICKIE.
I’ll just write you out a prescription, shall I?
PATIENT.
Oh, it’s too good of you. I’m afraid I’m giving you so much trouble.
DICKIE.
Not at all. Now what would you like me to give you?
PATIENT.
[_Dreadfully embarrassed._] Oh, whatever you like, please. It’s too good
of you.
DICKIE.
You know, there’s not much the matter with you.
PATIENT.
Oh, I’m so sorry. I really, really....
DICKIE.
I should have thought you’d be rather pleased.
PATIENT.
[_Apologetically._] Yes, of course, I’m very much pleased. I didn’t mean
that. I’ve taken up so much of your time.
DICKIE.
It’s only out of the people who’ve got nothing the matter with them that
I make a living. The people who are ill either get well or die, and
that’s the end of them.
PATIENT.
Yes, I see. I never thought of that. Beautiful day it is, isn’t it?
DICKIE.
Won’t you sit down?
PATIENT.
Oh, it’s too good of you. Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid I’m taking up
so much of your time.
DICKIE.
I always make my patients sit on the other side of my desk since one of
them suddenly saw a snake on me, and flung himself at my throat in order
to save me from being bitten. He nearly throttled me in the process, and
when I knelt on his chest, he said I was an ungrateful devil, and he
wouldn’t interfere with the snakes next time they went for me.
PATIENT.
[_Extremely agitated._] Oh, but you don’t think there’s any danger of my
flying at your throat, do you?
DICKIE.
[_With a laugh._] No, of course not.
PATIENT.
I drink nothing for my luncheon, and only claret and water for my
dinner.
DICKIE.
I suppose you wouldn’t think you’d had your money’s worth if I gave you
no medicine?
PATIENT.
Oh, it’s too good of you, but I think, for my wife’s sake, I’d like to
take something.
DICKIE.
Well, look here, I’ve given you some strychnine to buck you up, and some
bismuth to quiet you down. Take it three times a day after meals.
PATIENT.
Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure it’s just what I want. And now--er. And
now--er....
[_He gets up, overcome with embarrassment._
DICKIE.
I think there’s nothing more I can do for you.
PATIENT.
No, er--thank you very much. I--er--it’s so good of you to have taken so
much trouble. Yes, er....
DICKIE.
[_Understanding._] Oh.... My fee is two guineas.
PATIENT.
[_Infinitely relieved._] Oh, thank you so much. That’s just what I
wanted to ask you. Shall I write you a cheque?
DICKIE.
We always prefer to have it in hard cash, you know, in case it’s a bogus
cheque.
PATIENT.
Oh, certainly. It’s too good of you. I thought you mightn’t like it.
DICKIE.
It’s extraordinary how nervous people are about giving a doctor money.
If you only knew how jolly glad he is to get it.
PATIENT.
Yes. Thank you very much.
[_The patient takes two guineas out of his pocket and puts them
nervously on the chimney-piece._
DICKIE.
Hang it all, man, not on the mantelpiece. There are limits.
PATIENT.
Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m so sorry.
DICKIE.
We always like it put on the desk.
PATIENT.
I don’t often come and consult doctors.
DICKIE.
I can see that. If you did you’d probably give me two pounds and say you
hadn’t got two shillings on you, especially if you were a woman.
PATIENT.
You don’t say so. Really it never occurred to me.
DICKIE.
Thank you. Well, good-bye.
PATIENT.
Good-bye, and thank you so much. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Good-bye.
[DICKIE _leads him to the door and shows him out. At the door he
sees_ GOLIGHTLY.
DICKIE.
Hulloa! Come in, won’t you? [_Calling upstairs._] Pen, here’s your noble
parent.
[GOLIGHTLY _comes in_.
GOLIGHTLY.
I was just going up to see Pen.
DICKIE.
Come and sit down here, and we’ll have a smoke.
GOLIGHTLY.
Aren’t you expecting patients?
DICKIE.
Oh, it’s just on five o’clock. I don’t suppose any one else will come.
We might have tea down here.
GOLIGHTLY.
How are things going?
DICKIE.
Rotten. Look here, a wretched two guineas. That’s all I’ve made this
afternoon.
[PENELOPE _comes in_.
PENELOPE.
Well, father?
GOLIGHTLY.
Kiss your noble parent, my child. You’ve got a new dress on.
PENELOPE.
I rather like it, don’t you?
DICKIE.
Is that another new frock, Pen?
PENELOPE.
Yes, darling. Why?
DICKIE.
Oh, nothing.
PENELOPE.
The wife of a fashionable physician has to spend a lot of money on her
clothes.
GOLIGHTLY.
Dickie was lamenting that times were very bad.
DICKIE.
What can you expect with this beastly weather! Fine, dry, cold day after
day. We haven’t had a fog this autumn. It doesn’t give one a chance. Of
course everybody keeps well. Times are getting worse and worse.
Everybody has decent drains now. An officious Government gives people
pure water. If it weren’t for patent medicines and the _malade
imaginaire_ half the doctors in London would starve.
PENELOPE.
Never mind, Dickie. There may be a motor accident just outside our front
door one of these days.
DICKIE.
It would be just like my luck if they were all killed outright. No, what
I want is a really good epidemic, a very complicated form of influenza
that’d keep people on their backs for about a month.
PENELOPE.
And supposing I got it?
DICKIE.
Well, if you got it that bounder on the other side of the street would
have to treat you. And he couldn’t charge you as you’re my wife, and
he’d simply grind his teeth at having to waste his time.
PENELOPE.
The bounder on the other side of the street is Dr. Rogers. I like him
much better than Dickie.
DICKIE.
Pompous ass.
PENELOPE.
He’s got such a pleasant bedside manner.
DICKIE.
You’ve never seen my bedside manner. [_Looking at his hands._] I say, I
must just go and wash my hands, they’re covered with Picric Acid.
[_Exit._
PENELOPE.
Where’s mother? Converting the heathen?
GOLIGHTLY.
From the safe distance of the Albert Hall.
PENELOPE.
[_With a change of manner._] I’m glad you came alone.
GOLIGHTLY.
Is anything the matter?
PENELOPE.
[_Breaking out._] I can’t go on with it any longer. I’ve come to the end
of my strength.
GOLIGHTLY.
Is Dickie still ...?
PENELOPE.
Yes. I can’t imagine what he sees in her. I sit and watch her sometimes
and wonder what she has that I haven’t got. You don’t think I’m plain,
do you?
GOLIGHTLY.
Certainly not. If you had been I should have exposed you at your birth,
like the ancient Spartans.
PENELOPE.
There are lots of men who are willing to tell me that I’m extremely
attractive.
GOLIGHTLY.
Why don’t you let them?
PENELOPE.
My dear father, you’re the most immoral parent I’ve ever come across.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a little deprecatory shrug._] It might be politic.
PENELOPE.
[_Shaking her head._] No, I don’t know whether I shall ever get Dickie
back again, but I don’t want to get him back by exciting his jealousy. I
don’t want his love if I can only have it by making him think other men
are in love with me.
GOLIGHTLY.
Remember that two and two never make five.
PENELOPE.
[_Impatiently._] It’s easy enough to give advice. You’ve only got to sit
still and watch. I’ve got to do things. And the worst of it is that
doing things means doing nothing.
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear.
PENELOPE.
Now, father, don’t look as if you didn’t understand or I shall throw
something at your head. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be up and
doing, but I just have to sit still and keep my temper. You don’t know
what I’ve suffered this month with a smiling face. I’ve laughed while my
heart ached. I’ve chaffed Dickie when I’ve known he was just going to
meet Ada Fergusson. I’ve arranged little parties so that they might be
together. I haven’t even dared to cry by myself in case Ada Fergusson
should see that my eyes were red and tell Dickie. He’s seen her every
day, every single day for the last month, and all the time I’ve been
cheerful and pleasant and amusing.
GOLIGHTLY.
But how does he manage to get the time?
PENELOPE.
Of course he’s been neglecting his practice. He’s sent his assistant to
people he ought to have seen himself. You remember Mrs. Mack, don’t you?
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Smiling._] The imaginary Mrs. Mack? Yes.
PENELOPE.
If you knew how I hated Mrs. Mack! She’s been having operations. She has
an operation about once a week, and Dickie goes off for the whole day in
his car.
GOLIGHTLY.
She must have the constitution of a boa-constrictor.
PENELOPE.
And the curious thing is that she always has an operation when there’s a
race meeting. She had an operation for the Duke of York’s Stakes at
Kempton; and she had another operation for the Cesarewitch, and a third
for Sandown.
GOLIGHTLY.
How very singular.
PENELOPE.
It is till you know that Ada Fergusson adores racing. And the thing that
makes me so furious is that I’m quite certain Dickie puts on her money
for her; and when her horse wins she pockets the profits, and when it
loses she doesn’t pay her stake.
GOLIGHTLY.
That sounds very nasty of her. What makes you think it?
PENELOPE.
I do it myself.... Poor Dickie, it’s going to cost him a lot of money
this month.
GOLIGHTLY.
Why?
PENELOPE.
Because whenever he goes out for the day I have to console myself by
buying something. I generally choose something rather dear.
GOLIGHTLY.
I don’t remember that I advised that in the treatment of a volatile
husband.
PENELOPE.
No, I added it of my own accord.
GOLIGHTLY.
But why did you send for me to-day?
PENELOPE.
Because the end has come. And I can’t stand it any longer. This morning
Dickie said that Mrs. Mack was well enough to be moved, and he was
going to take her over to Paris to put her in the Riviera train.
GOLIGHTLY.
Do you mean to say that....
PENELOPE.
[_With an angry shrug of the shoulders._] Ada Fergusson wants a little
jaunt in Paris.
GOLIGHTLY.
What are you going to do?
PENELOPE.
I’m going to tell him he must choose between us. I’m going to do
everything I can to prevent him from going. And I mean to let him know
that if he goes it’s the end.
GOLIGHTLY.
Oh!
PENELOPE.
Don’t say oh! Say I’m quite right. Say it’s the only thing to do.
GOLIGHTLY.
But I think you’re quite wrong.
PENELOPE.
Wrong!
GOLIGHTLY.
You don’t suppose he wants to go to Paris. No man in his senses would
take the risk.
PENELOPE.
Then why is he going?
GOLIGHTLY.
Because she’s making him. And once a woman in these circumstances makes
a man do what he doesn’t want to, it’s the beginning of the end.
PENELOPE.
How d’you know?
GOLIGHTLY.
I don’t know. I guess it.
PENELOPE.
It seems to me that a lifetime spent in the study of mathematics has
resulted in some very various knowledge.
GOLIGHTLY.
Be a good girl, Pen, and let them go.
[_There is a pause while_ PENELOPE, _resting her face on her hands,
looks straight at her father. She thinks the matter out._
PENELOPE.
You were right when you said I should want a great deal of tact, and a
great deal of patience, and a great deal of self-control. My word!
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Smiling._] Well?
PENELOPE.
I’ll do nothing. I’ll hold my tongue, I’ll smile, I’ll make jokes,
but....
GOLIGHTLY.
Yes?
PENELOPE.
I want some hats badly. I’ll just go and ring up Françoise and tell her
to send me all she’s got in the shop.
[DICKIE _comes in_.
GOLIGHTLY.
I was just going.
DICKIE.
I’m sorry. Why so soon?
GOLIGHTLY.
I promised to fetch my wife.
PENELOPE.
You must come back. This is the first time I’ve been separated from
Dickie since our marriage, and I shall want to hide my head in the
maternal bosom while my noble father pats my hand.
DICKIE.
I wish you wouldn’t take it so calmly, Pen. You might be a bit cut up.
PENELOPE.
But, darling, I’m making every preparation to have fit after fit of
violent hysterics. I can’t do more.
DICKIE.
Rot me, that’s right.
PENELOPE.
[_With meaning._] After all, Dickie, I know you wouldn’t go if you could
help it. It’s only because you feel it’s your duty, isn’t it?
[DICKIE _is rather uncomfortable, but says nothing_. GOLIGHTLY
_breaks the momentary silence_.
GOLIGHTLY.
Why are you going by night?
DICKIE.
[_Relieved._] Oh, you see, there’s so much less of a crowd. It’s more
convenient when you’re carting an invalid about.
PENELOPE.
[_Gaily._] It’ll be great fun, because you’ll see all the gay young men
who are making a little excursion to Paris with the object of their
affections. I’m told they always go by night so that no one should see
them on the journey.
GOLIGHTLY.
Well, I must be getting on or I shall be late. _Au revoir._
PENELOPE.
Don’t be too long, father, in case my emotions get the better of me
before you come back.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Nodding._] I may see you later, Dickie.
[_He goes out._ PENELOPE _makes as if to follow him_.
PENELOPE.
I’m going upstairs to have tea.
DICKIE.
[_Rather stiffly._] I’d like to have a little talk with you, Pen.
PENELOPE.
Then come up into the drawing-room.
DICKIE.
I’d rather talk to you down here.
PENELOPE.
[_Sitting down._] Very well. Talk.
DICKIE.
You can send for the tea if you like.
PENELOPE.
No; I’ll let it stand and ruin my digestion.
DICKIE.
[_Taking papers out of his pocket and giving them to_ PENELOPE.] D’you
know what these are?
PENELOPE.
[_With a charming smile._] Bills, darling?
DICKIE.
I can see they’re bills, thank you!
PENELOPE.
[_Flourishing one of them._] This is for the frock I’ve got on. You
wouldn’t think it cost so much, would you? [_Looking down at it._] You
see, you have to pay for the cut.
DICKIE.
[_Trying to keep his temper._] And what do you expect me to do with
them?
PENELOPE.
[_Indifferently._] You can put them in the waste-paper basket if you
like, but it would be shorter to pay them.
DICKIE.
[_Flying into a passion._] Now, look here, Pen. It’s perfectly
preposterous. You know I’m not going to stand this sort of thing.
PENELOPE.
[_Apparently much astonished, quite good-humouredly._] Darling, you’re
not going to make a scene for a few little things I’ve bought myself. I
was positively in rags, and I thought you liked me to dress neatly.
DICKIE.
Hang it all, I’m a poor man, and you’ve spent more than a hundred and
fifty pounds in this one month.
PENELOPE.
[_Calmly._] Does it come to as much as that? It’s lucky you’ve got such
a good patient in Mrs. Mack, isn’t it?
[_He gives her a suspicious look, but to get away from_ MRS. MACK
_breaks out angrily_.
DICKIE.
Senseless extravagance I call it. Now look here, here’s thirty-five
pounds for a dress in blue cloth--absurd price to pay--on 9th of
October.
PENELOPE.
Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton.
DICKIE.
How d’you mean, Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton?
PENELOPE.
I just happen to remember they were on that day because Madame Claude
was so surprised to see me. It was only by the merest chance that she
hadn’t gone to the races herself.
DICKIE.
But what on earth put it into your head to go and buy a blue cloth
dress?
PENELOPE.
[_Sweetly._] Well, you see, darling, it was the day of the first
operation that was performed on Mrs. Mack. And you were away all day,
and I felt awfully depressed and lonely. And I knew how anxious you
were, and it made me anxious, so I just went and ordered a blue cloth to
cheer myself up a bit.
[DICKIE _looks at her for a moment, then looks down at the bill, is
about to speak, but says nothing_. PENELOPE _watches him_.
DICKIE.
[_Suddenly._] And look here, on the 13th of October there’s an ermine
stole and a muff.
PENELOPE.
Yes, that was the second operation on poor Mrs. Mack.
DICKIE.
I say, I think it’s a bit thick.
PENELOPE.
Well, I had to do something while you were away. And it made me feel so
miserable to see everybody driving off with race glasses to Liverpool
Street.
DICKIE.
I beg your pardon.
PENELOPE.
You see, the 13th of October was the Cesarewitch.
DICKIE.
And I suppose all the others are to be explained in the same way.
[_Looking at a bill._] October 22.
PENELOPE.
Sandown Races.
[DICKIE _looks through the bill crossly, but does not speak_.
[_Innocently._] I wonder why you always had your operations on the same
day as an important race meeting.
DICKIE.
I suppose you think it odd?
PENELOPE.
A little.
DICKIE.
Well, it isn’t odd at all. It’s one of old Peter Marsden’s cranky ways.
I told you it was Peter Marsden who did the operations, didn’t I?
[PENELOPE _nods_.] The fact is, he’s simply mad on racing. And he’s lost
such a pot of money that he always fixes an important operation for the
same day as a race meeting so that he absolutely won’t be able to go to
it.
PENELOPE.
Funny old thing.
[DICKIE _looks up suspiciously_.
[_With a laugh._] Peter Marsden, not you, darling.
DICKIE.
Now look here, Pen, we’ll say no more about these bills. I’ll pay them
this time....
PENELOPE.
I knew you would.
DICKIE.
But there must be no more of them.
PENELOPE.
I really don’t know why you should make such a fuss. After all, you’ve
been earning simply heaps and heaps of money with Mrs. Mack.
DICKIE.
We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched. I haven’t had a
penny out of her yet.
PENELOPE.
But now that she’s going away you can send in your bill.
DICKIE.
Oh, I couldn’t possibly. It would kill her.
PENELOPE.
Don’t you think you might risk it?
DICKIE.
I think you’re awfully heartless, Pen. You forget that I’m very much
attached to the old lady. I look upon her as a friend as well as a
patient.
PENELOPE.
Perhaps she’ll leave you something in her will. We want a new electric
brougham, don’t we?
DICKIE.
Oh, I shouldn’t accept it. I have the strongest feeling against doctors
getting legacies from their patients.
PENELOPE.
Well, you’ll be able to charge at least a hundred and fifty pounds for
taking her to Paris.
DICKIE.
[_With a start._] Pen!
PENELOPE.
Oh, you made me jump.
DICKIE.
You’re not proposing to buy anything more?
PENELOPE.
Well, darling, I know that when I get up to-morrow morning and you’re
not here, I shall feel dreadfully lonely and depressed.
DICKIE.
[_Interrupting._] Have your sainted mother to stay with you.
PENELOPE.
And it’s struck me that I simply haven’t got a hat I can wear.
DICKIE.
[_Sternly._] Penelope.
PENELOPE.
[_Persuasively._] It’ll make my frocks last so much longer if I have
some nice hats. You see, you ring the changes, and people think you have
a new gown on.
DICKIE.
And may I venture to inquire how many hats you’ll want to overcome your
depression?
PENELOPE.
[_Decidedly._] Three.
DICKIE.
I never heard anything so preposterous.
PENELOPE.
Now look here, Dickie, I’m willing to meet you half way; I promise you
they shan’t cost more than five pounds each. You can afford that out of
the hundred and fifty.
DICKIE.
The fact is, Pen, that Mrs. Mack is more a friend than a patient, and
she’s not so well to do as I thought. I’m proposing to make no charge
for accompanying her to Paris.
PENELOPE.
[_Quite firmly._] Oh, no, Dickie, I won’t hear of it. You’ve got a wife
to think of--if you died to-morrow I should be totally unprovided for.
You have no right to be quixotic. It’s not fair to me.
[DICKIE _is just going to answer when_ PEYTON _comes in_.
PEYTON.
A lady wishes to see you, sir.
DICKIE.
[_Irritably._] At this hour?
PEYTON.
It’s Mrs. Watson, sir.
DICKIE.
Oh, yes, I know. Show her in.
[_Exit_ PEYTON.
DICKIE.
Thank heaven, there’s somebody. I’ll get a few guineas out of her at all
events. [_Looking at his case book._] Four visits. That’ll be five
guineas. By Jove, I want them.
PENELOPE.
What’s the matter with her?
DICKIE.
I don’t know, but I’m pretending I do. And she probably won’t find out.
PENELOPE.
I’ll leave you. I must just telephone to some one.
[_She goes out._ DICKIE _walks up and down irritably. When_ MRS.
WATSON _appears he at once puts on his professional manner, and is
very bland and affable_. MRS. WATSON _is a little, old lady in
black_.
DICKIE.
Well, Mrs. Watson?
MRS. WATSON.
You mustn’t mind my coming so late. I know you don’t see any one after
five, but I’m going away.
DICKIE.
I’m delighted to see you. I promise you that.
MRS. WATSON.
I’m starting for the Riviera with my daughter to-morrow, and I thought
I’d like to see you again before I went.
DICKIE.
Of course. And how have you been getting on?
MRS. WATSON.
[_With the keenest satisfaction._] Oh! I don’t get on. I never get
better.
DICKIE.
Have you been taking your medicine regularly?
MRS. WATSON.
[_Cheerfully._] Yes; but it doesn’t do me any good.
DICKIE.
Let’s try your knee jerks, shall we?
[MRS. WATSON _crosses one leg over the other, and_ DICKIE _taps
below the knee; the leg is slightly jerked up_.
DICKIE.
That seems right enough.
MRS. WATSON.
Sir Benjamin Broadstairs tried everything, and he couldn’t cure me; and
then I went to Sir William Wilson, and he told me not to do any of the
things that Sir Benjamin Broadstairs told me to do, and I got worse and
worse!
DICKIE.
You seem uncommonly cheerful about it.
MRS. WATSON.
I’ve been to every doctor in London, and they all say I’m a wonderful
case. I like being examined by doctors, and they take such an interest
in me. The hours and hours they’ve spent over me. I can never be
grateful enough for all the kindness I’ve had from them.
DICKIE.
It’s very nice of you to say so. I think I’ll try you on something else
to-day.
MRS. WATSON.
Oh! make it nice and strong; won’t you, doctor?
DICKIE.
You seem to like your medicine with some body in it.
MRS. WATSON.
Well, I like taking medicines. It’s something to do; and now my
daughter’s married I’m very much alone. I think I’ve taken every
medicine in the Pharmacopœia, and they’ve none of them done me any
good.
DICKIE.
[_Handing her a prescription._] Well, perhaps this will. You must take
it three times a day before meals.
MRS. WATSON.
[_Looking at it._] Oh! but I’ve had this before, Dr. O’Farrell. Sir
Arthur Thomas gave me this only a few months ago.
DICKIE.
Well, try it again. Perhaps you didn’t give it a fair chance.
MRS. WATSON.
I was reading in the _Lancet_ the other day that a German doctor had
discovered a new medicine which does nerve cases such a lot of good. I’m
sure it’s the very thing for me.
DICKIE.
What on earth were you reading the _Lancet_ for?
MRS. WATSON.
Oh, I always read the _Lancet_ and the _British Medical Journal_. You
see, my poor husband had to take them in for his practice.
DICKIE.
[_With a gasp._] You don’t mean to say your husband was a doctor?
MRS. WATSON.
Oh, I thought I told you that I was a doctor’s widow.
[DICKIE _tries to master his agitation while_ MRS. WATSON _prattles
on_.
MRS. WATSON.