Barlow and Yardsley (together). Why, what's the matter?
Yardsley. I hope the house isn't on fire?
Barlow. Or that you haven't been robbed?
Dorothy. No, no; nothing like that. It's – it's about Jennie.
Yardsley (nervously). Jennie? Wha – wha – what's the matter with Jennie?
Dorothy. I only wish I knew. I —
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 dumb-waiter 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 it 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 portière 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 portières 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?
Yardsley (with a forced laugh). Treeologist.
Dorothy. What are dusters, Mr. Yardsley?
Barlow. Yes, old man, tell us. I'm anxious to find out myself.
Yardsley (aside). So am I. What the deuce are dusters, for this occasion only? (Aloud.) What? Never heard of dusters? Ho! Why, dear me, where have you been all your lives? (Aside.) Must gain time to think up what dusters are. (Aloud.) Why, they're as old as the hills.
Barlow. That may be, but I can't say I think your description is at all definite.
Dorothy. Do they look like maples?
Yardsley (with an angry wave of his arms towards Jennie). Something – in fact, very much. They're exactly like them. You can hardly tell them from oaks.
Barlow. Oaks?
Yardsley. I said oaks. Oaks! O-A-K-S!
Barlow. But oaks aren't like maples.
Yardsley. Well, who said they were? We were talking about oaks – and – erand dusters. We – er – we used to have a row of them in front of our old house at – (Aside.) Now where the deuce did we have the old house? Never had one, but we must for the sake of the present situation. (Aloud.) Up at – at – Bryn-Mawr – or at – Troy, or some such place, and – at – they kept the – the dust of the highway from getting into the house. (With a sigh of relief.) And so, you see, they were called dusters. Thought every one knew that.
[As Yardsley finishes, Jennie loses her balance and falls headlong into the room.
Dorothy (starting up hastily). Why, Jennie!
Yardsley (staggering into chair). That settles it. It's all up with me.
[Jennie sobs, and, rising, rushes to Yardsley's side.
Jennie. Save yourself; he's going to kill you!
Dorothy. Jennie! What is the meaning of this? Mr. Yardsley – can – can you shed any light on this mystery?
Yardsley (pulling himself together with a great effort). I? I assure you I can't, Miss Andrews. How could I? All I know is that somebody is – is going to kill me, though for what I haven't the slightest idea.
Jennie (indignantly). Eh? What? Why, Mr. Yardsley – Bob!
Barlow. Bob?
Dorothy. Jennie! Bob?
Yardsley. Don't you call me Bob.
Jennie. It's Hicks.
[Bursts out crying.
Barlow. Hicks?
Dorothy. Jennie, Hicks isn't Bob. His name is George.
Yardsley (in a despairing rage). Hicks be —
Dorothy. Mr. Yardsley!
Yardsley (pulling himself together again). Bobbed. Hicks be Bobbed. That's what I was going to say.
Dorothy. What on earth does this all mean? I must have an explanation, Jennie. What have you to say for yourself?
Jennie. Why, I —
Yardsley. I tell you it isn't true. She's made it up out of whole cloth.
Barlow. What isn't true? She hasn't said anything yet.