Yardsley (aside). I'm glad you don't.
Barlow. What say?
Yardsley. I didn't say anything. Why should I say anything? I
haven't anything to say. If people who had nothing to say would not
insist upon talking, you'd be--
Dorothy. I heard the poor girl weeping down-stairs, and when I went
to the dumbwaiter to ask her what was the matter, I heard--I heard a
man's voice.
Yardsley. Man's voice?
Barlow. Man's voice is what Miss Andrews said.
Dorothy. Yes; it was Hicks, our coachman, and he was dreadfully
angry about something.
Yardsley (sinking into chair). Good Lord! Hicks! Angry! At--
something!
Dorothy. He was threatening to kill somebody.
Yardsley. This grows worse and worse! Threatening to kill somebody!
D-did-did you o-over-overhear huh-huh-whom he was going to kuk-kill?
Barlow. What's the matter with you, Yardsley? Are you going to die
of fright, or have you suddenly caught a chill?
Dorothy. Oh, I hope not! Don't die here, anyhow, Mr. Yardsley. If
you must die, please go home and die. I couldn't stand another shock
to-day. Why, really, I was nearly frightened to death. I don't know
now but what I ought to send for the police, Hicks was so violent.
Barlow. Perhaps she and Hicks have had a lovers' quarrel.
Yardsley. Very likely; very likely indeed. I think that is no doubt
the explanation of the whole trouble. Lovers will quarrel. They
were engaged, you know.
Dorothy (surprised). No, I didn't know it. Were they? Who told
you?
Yardsley (discovering his mistake). Why--er--wasn't it you said so,
Miss Dorothy? Or you, Barlow?
Barlow. I have not the honor of the young woman's confidence, and so
could not have given you the information.
Dorothy. I didn't know it, so how could I have told you?
Yardsley (desperately). Then I must have dreamed it. I do have the
queerest dreams sometimes, but there's nothing strange about this
one, anyhow. Parlor-maids frequently do--er--become engaged to
coachmen and butlers and that sort of thing. It isn't a rare
occurrence at all. If I'd said she was engaged to Billie Wilkins, or
to--to Barlow here--
Barlow. Or to yourself.
Yardsley. Sir? What do you mean to insinuate? That I am engaged to
Jennie?
Barlow. I never said so.
Dorothy. Oh dear, let us have the tea. You quarrelsome men are just
wearing me out. Mr. Barlow, do you want cream in yours?
Barlow. If you please; and one lump of sugar. (Dorothy pours is
out.) Thanks.
Dorothy. Mr. Yardsley?
Yardsley. Just a little, Miss Andrews. No cream, and no sugar.
[Dorothy prepares a cup for Yardsley. He is about to take it when--
Dorothy. Well, I declare! It's nothing but hot water! I forgot the
tea entirely!
Barlow (with a laugh). Oh, never mind. Hot water is good for
dyspepsia.
[With a significant look at Yardsley.
Yardsley. It depends on how you get it, Mr. Barlow. I've known men
who've got dyspepsia from living in hot water too much.
[As Yardsley speaks the portiere is violently clutched from without,
and Jennie's head is thrust into the room. No one observes her.
Barlow. Well, my cup is very satisfactory to me, Miss Dorothy. Fact
is, I've always been fond of cambric tea, and this is just right.
Yardsley (patronizingly). It _is_ good for children.
Jennie (trying to attract Yardsley's attention). Pst!
Yardsley. My mamma lets me have it Sunday nights.
Dorothy. Ha, ha, ha!
Barlow. Another joke? Good. Let me enjoy it too. Hee, Hee!
Jennie. Pst!
[Barlow looks around; Jennie hastily withdraws her head.
Barlow. I didn't know you had steam heat in this house.
Dorothy. We haven't. What put such an idea as that into your head?
Barlow. Why, I thought I heard the hissing of steam, the click of a
radiator, or something of that sort back by the door.
Yardsley. Maybe the house is haunted.
Dorothy. I fancy it was your imagination: or perhaps it was the
wind blowing through the hall. The pantry window is open.
Barlow. I guess maybe that's it. How fine it must be in the country
now!
[Jennie pokes her head in through the portieres again, and follows it
with her arm and hand, in which is a feather duster, which she waves
wildly in an endeavor to attract Yardsley's attention.
Dorothy. Divine. I should so love to be out of town still. It
seems to me people always make a great mistake returning to the city
so early in the fall. The country is really at its best at this time
of year.
[Yardsley turns half around, and is about to speak, when he catches
sight of the now almost hysterical Jennie and her feather duster.
Barlow. Yes; I think so too. I was at Lenox last week, and the
foliage was gorgeous.
Yardsley (feeling that he must say something). Yes. I suppose all
the feathers on the maple-trees are turning red by this time.
Dorothy. Feathers, Mr. Yardsley?
Barlow. Feathers?
Yardsley (with a furtive glance at Jennie). Ha, ha! What an absurd
slip! Did I say feathers? I meant--I meant leaves, of course. All
the leaves on the dusters are turning.
Barlow. I don't believe you know what you do mean. Who ever heard
of leaves on dusters? What are dusters? Do you know, Miss Dorothy?
[As he turns to Miss Andrews, Yardsley tries to wave Jennie away.
She beckons with her arms more wildly than ever, and Yardsley
silently speaks the words, "Go away."
Dorothy. I'm sure I don't know of any tree by that name, but then
I'm not a--not a what?