Читать книгу The Torch-Bearers - George Kelly - Страница 4

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After a slight pause, a door out at the right is heard to close, and immediately Mr. Ritter comes along the hallway beyond the partition and into the room. He is a brisk, rather stocky type of man, in his early forties, wearing a brown suit and overcoat, a derby hat, and carrying a suit-case. He sets the suit-case down on the partition-seat at the right, and, with a glance around the room, at the unusual arrangement of the furniture, starts out into the hallway again, removing his gloves and overcoat. He glances along the hallway to the left and up the stairs as he goes. Jenny comes along the hallway from the left carrying a small, light chair. As she is about to come into the drawing-room proper from the hallway, she becomes conscious of Mr. Ritter out at the hall-rack at the right. She stops and peers in that direction. She is a pleasant little English person, plump and trim, dressed in the regulation parlor-maid’s black and white.

Jenny. Is that you, Mr. Ritter?

Ritter. That’s who it is, Jenny! How are you?

Jenny. [Bringing the little chair forward and placing it above the little table at the left] Pretty well, thanks, Mr. Ritter, how are you?

Ritter. [Coming along the hallway from the right] I’m whatever you are, Jenny. [Jenny gives a faint little laugh and proceeds with her arrangements, and Ritter picks up several telegrams from the stand in the hallway, just to the left of the center entrance.]

Jenny. Ain’t you back a bit soon?

Ritter. [Coming forward to the small table at the right, below the piano] Yes, I thought I’d have to go down to Cincinnati for a week or two, but I didn’t.

Jenny. Mrs. Ritter ain’t expectin’ you, is she?

Ritter. [Glancing thru the telegrams] No, she isn’t, Jenny.

Jenny. I thought I didn’t remember hearin’ her sayin’ nothin’.

Ritter. Where is she?

Jenny. [Starting for the hallway] She’s upstairs, sir, I’ll call her.

Ritter. [With a glance at the furniture] What are you doing around here, Jenny, housecleaning?

Jenny. [Turning and coming back] No, sir, there’s a rehearsal here tonight. [Ritter stops reading and looks at her quizzically for a second.]

Ritter. What kind of a rehearsal?

Jenny. Why, a rehearsal for a show that Mrs. Ritter’s takin’ part in tomorrow night. They done it at the Civic Club the week after you went away, and they liked it so well they’re doin’ it again tomorrow night.

Ritter. Who liked it?

Jenny. Sir?

Ritter. I say, who liked it so well that they’re doing it again?

Jenny. Why, everybody seemed to like it, Mr. Ritter, from what the papers said.

Ritter. What kind of a show is it?

Jenny. Why, I think it’s a tragedy, from what I gather.

Ritter. Did you see it, Jenny?

Jenny. No, sir, I didn’t get to see it, I’m sorry to say; but I heard everybody connected with it sayin’ it was a great success. [Ritter resumes his telegrams, then looks at Jenny suddenly.]

Ritter. How did Mrs. Ritter get into it?

Jenny. Why, I think somebody died, Mr. Ritter, if I’m not mistaken.

Ritter. [Shaking his head conclusively, and resuming his telegram] I assumed it was an extremity of some kind.

Mrs. R. [At the top of the stairs at the back] Fred Ritter! don’t tell me that’s you down there! [Jenny turns quickly and goes to the foot of the stairs.]

Ritter. No, I’m still out in Chicago!

Mrs. R. Is it, Jenny?

Jenny. Yes, mam, I was just comin’ to tell you.

Mrs. R. [Starting down the stairs] I thought I heard his voice! [Jenny laughs.] I’ve been standing up here for the last five minutes saying to myself, “Who can that be that has a voice so much like Fred’s!” [Coming into the room from the hallway] Why, Fred, darling, what are you doing here! [He has moved up towards the center-door.]

Ritter. [Laughing a little] How is the old kid! [Kisses her]

Mrs. R. I thought you wouldn’t be back till the first! [Jenny passes along the hallway to the left.]

Ritter. Why, that Cincinnati thing’s been postponed till after Thanksgiving.

Mrs. R. [Turning away from him and stepping out into the hallway again] Well, why didn’t you wire or something?

Ritter. I was afraid of giving you a shock.

Mrs. R. Oh, Jenny!

Ritter. You’re such a frail little flower.

Mrs. R. [Turning back to him] Now stop, Fred! I’ve really lost a lot since you went away.

Ritter. How do you know? [Jenny comes along the hallway from the left.]

Mrs. R. Why, my dear, I can tell by my clothes. [She turns to Jenny.] Jenny, will you get me a glass of water, please.

Jenny. [Starting out] Yes, mam.

Ritter. You’re not going to faint, are you?

Mrs. R. [Turning back to him again with a flip of her hand at him] No, I’m not.

Ritter. [Slipping his arm around her waist and coming forward] Any mail here for me?

Mrs. R. Not a single thing, Fred; I sent everything right on to Chicago as soon as it came: there must be several letters there for you now.

Ritter. [Disengaging himself and taking her hands and looking at her] I’ll get them all right. How have you been treating yourself while I’ve been away?

Mrs. R. All right; only I’m glad to see you back.

Ritter. Kiss me.

Mrs. R. The house seemed awfully lonesome.

Ritter. Kiss me. [She kisses him.]

Mrs. R. [Passing above him to the piano at the right] Crazy thing. [He moves over to the little table at the left, rummaging in his pocket for a cigar, and Mrs. Ritter commences to rummage in a sewing-basket on the piano. This basket is Mrs. Ritter at a glance, all green and yellow satin, fraught with meaningless bows and weird-looking knots. She undoubtedly made it herself, and it must have taken her months. But she’s a practical woman; at least she thinks she is; and the sewing-basket helps in a way to sustain the conviction. Poor Paula! As one looks at her and listens to her he appreciates the fortune of the circumstance that there is some sane and capable person between her and the world; and as he more closely observes the sewing-basket, he rejoices in the blessing of the sane and capable person’s ability to spare her the necessity of having to make her own clothes. Although, as a matter of fact, she would look lovely in anything; for Paula is pretty—charmingly so. And her hair is marvelous. So gold—and satiny. She is wearing a dress now of lime-green silk with a standing collar edged with black fur, and gold-colored slippers.] Did you have anything to eat, Fred?

Ritter. Yes, I ate on the train. What’s this Jenny was saying? Something about a show you’re in?

Mrs. R. Oh,—[Looking at him] did she tell you?

Ritter. I wondered what had happened to the furniture when I came in.

Mrs. R. [Coming around and forward towards the little table below the piano] Yes, there’s a rehearsal here tonight. We have it every Tuesday and Thursday. Of course, it’s just to run over the lines, because we’ve done it already at the Civic Club on the fourteenth. And, my dear, it was perfectly marvelous.

Ritter. What kind of a show is it?

Mrs. R. [Standing back of the table] Oh, it’s just a one-act play,—in one act, you know. And it was really quite wonderful. [She gives an inane laugh.] I had no idea. [She touches her hair and turns towards the back of the room again.]

Ritter. How did you happen to get into it? [Jenny comes along the hallway from the left carrying a glass of water on a small tray.]

Mrs. R. [Turning to him] Well now, wait till I tell you—[She sees Jenny.] Oh, thanks, Jenny. [Jenny starts out again.] Jenny, will you go to the top of the stairs and see if I left the lights burning in my room.

Jenny. [Turning and starting towards the foot of the stairs in the right hallway; and setting the tray on the little stand as she goes] Yes, mam.

Mrs. Ritter. [Coming forward holding the glass of water] I think I did. [She sips.]

Jenny. [As she crosses the center-door] Do you want that suit-case taken up, Mr. Ritter? [Mrs. Ritter turns round to the right and watches Jenny.]

Ritter. Yes, you can take it up if you will, Jenny, thanks. [Jenny lifts the suit-case from the partition-seat and goes out and up the stairs.]

Mrs. Ritter. [Turning to Ritter] You know, I wrote you about poor Jimmy Sheppard—

Ritter. Yes, what was that, had he been sick?

Mrs. Ritter. Why, not a day, my dear! that’s the reason it was all so dreadful. Of course, he’d always had more or less of a weak heart; but nothing to threaten anything of that kind. And just three days before the performance, mind you:—couldn’t happen any other time. And poor Mrs. Sheppard playing one of the leading parts. [She turns to her left and goes up to the center-door, where she looks out toward the right hallway expectantly.]

Ritter. [Casually depositing the band from his cigar on the tray at his left] Did he know she was to play one of the leading parts?

Mrs. Ritter. [Turning at the center-door and looking at him] Who,—Mr. Sheppard?

Ritter. Yes.

Mrs. Ritter. [Coming forward again] Why, of course he did—She’d just finished telling him when he fell over. [Ritter appears to be unduly occupied with his cigar, and Mrs. Ritter takes advantage of the circumstance to refresh herself with another sip from the glass.] My dear, poor Clara Sheppard is a wreck—You want to write her a note, Fred, when you get time. And he never spoke—not a solitary word. But, she says—just as he was dying,—he gave her the funniest look. Oh, she says—if she lives to be a thousand, she’ll never forget the way he looked at her. [She goes up to the center-door and sets the glass down on the tray.]

Ritter. [Still busy with his cigar] Had he ever seen her act?

Mrs. Ritter. [Turning to him, thoughtfully] I don’t know,—whether he ever had or not. [Jenny comes down the stairs.] Oh, yes he had, too! for I saw him myself at the Century Drawing Rooms last Easter Monday night, and she was in that play there that night, you remember. [She moves to the piano and starts looking for something in the sewing-basket; he moves to the mantelpiece, up at the left, apparently looking for a match.]

Ritter. No, I wasn’t there.

Mrs. R. Oh, weren’t you! I thought you were.

Ritter. No. [He feels in his pockets.]

Mrs. R. There are matches there on that little table there, Fred. [She indicates the table below the mantelpiece.]

Ritter. [Discovering some in his pocket] I have some here. [He moves to the arm-chair at the left of table and sits down.]

Mrs. R. [As Jenny passes along the hallway towards the left] Oh, Jenny!

Jenny. Yes, mam?

Mrs. R. Jenny, will you ask Mrs. Brock if she’ll make some of that drink that she made the last time?

Jenny. I think she ’as made it already, Mrs. Ritter.

Mrs. R. Well, will you see, Jenny, please?

Jenny. [Starting away] Yes, mam.

Mrs. R. [To Ritter] The folks liked it so much the last time. [She picks up her sewing-basket.]

Jenny. All right, Mrs. Ritter. [She disappears at the left.]

Mrs. R. [Stepping out into the hallway] Oh, and, Jenny!

Jenny. [Out at the left] Yes, mam?

Mrs. R. Tell her to put a little of that gin in it, the way she did before.

Jenny. All right, mam.

Mrs. R. Tell her she’ll find some gin in the little buffet in the big dining-room.

Ritter. She probably knows where it is.

Mrs. R. [Coming forward carrying her sewing-basket] Well, anyway, that’s how I happened to get into it. [She sits on the chair at the left of the small table below the piano.] Mrs. Pampinelli called me up the first thing in the morning, and she said—

Ritter. Is she in it, too?

Mrs. R. [Looking up from the arrangement of a couple of strips of lace which she has taken from the sewing-basket] Who? Mrs. Pampinelli?

Ritter. Yes.

Mrs. R. No, she doesn’t take any part; she’s just in charge of everything.

Ritter. That suits her better.

Mrs. R. Kind of directress, I suppose you’d call her. [He has some difficulty keeping his face straight.] Tells us where to go, you know, on the stage,—so we won’t be running into each other. [Ritter laughs.] Really, Fred, you have no idea how easy it is to run into somebody on the stage. You’ve got to know where you’re going every time you move. [He laughs louder.] Why, what are you laughing at?

Ritter. I was just thinking of a few of the things I’ve heard Mrs. Pampinelli called.

Mrs. R. [Looking over at him reproachfully] Oh—now, that isn’t a bit nice of you, Fred Ritter. I know you don’t like her.

Ritter. I like her all right.

Mrs. R. No, you do not, now, Fred,—so don’t say you do.

Ritter. I think she’s marvelous.

Mrs. R. Well, she’s tremendously clever at this stage business, I don’t care what you say. You just ought to hear her talk about it sometime. Now, the last rehearsal we had,—over at her house,—she spoke on “Technique in Acting as Distinguished from Method;” and you’ve no idea how interesting it was. [Ritter glances over at her as he deposits some ashes from his cigar on the little table-tray.]

Ritter. You say you’ve given this show before?

Mrs. R. Oh yes! We gave it on the fourteenth at the Civic Club. And, my dear, that audience just loved it. And you’d be surprised too, for it’s a terrifically serious thing. In fact, in a way, it’s too serious—for the general public—that’s the reason several of the people who saw it suggested that, if we give it again, we should give a dance right after it. [She looks closely at her needle and Ritter looks discreetly at the end of his cigar.] But, as Mrs. Pampinelli says, it’s an absolute impossibility to give a dance at either the Civic Club or the Century Drawing Rooms, so that’s how we’re giving it this time down at Hutchy Kutchy. [Ritter looks over at her with a quizzical squint.]

Ritter. Where?

Mrs. R. [Looking over at him] Horticultural Hall—there at Broad and Spruce, you know.

Ritter. Yes, I know;—what did you call it?

Mrs. R. Hutchy Kutchy. [She laughs inanely.] Mrs. Pampinelli always calls it that,—I suppose I’ve gotten into the habit too, from hearing her. [She gives another little laugh, then finishes with an amused sigh.]

Ritter. What’s the show for, a charity of some kind?

Mrs. Ritter. [Turning to him suddenly, and with a shade of practicality] It’s for the Seamen’s Institute. Kind of a refuge for them, you know, while they’re in port; so the sailors won’t be wandering around the streets getting into bad company. [Ritter disposes of more ashes, with an unusual precision, and Mrs. Ritter resumes her sewing. Then, suddenly, she glances toward the casement-window at the right.] It was Mrs. Pampinelli’s idea, [She gathers her things into the sewing-basket and gets up, swinging round to her left and talking as she goes.] so of course she didn’t want anything to happen. [She sets the sewing-basket down on the piano, and, with another glance thru the window at the right, crosses to the little table at the left where Ritter is sitting.] So she called me up the first thing in the morning, and she said, “Paula darling, have you heard the news?” So, of course, I said “No;” because up to that time I hadn’t, and, naturally, I wasn’t going to say that I had.

Ritter. Certainly not.

Mrs. R. “Well,” she said, “poor Jimmy Sheppard has just passed on.” Well, luckily, I was sitting down at the time, or I positively think I should have passed on myself.

Ritter. [Raising his hand from the table as though distressed by the extremity of her remarks] Don’t say such things.

Mrs. R. [Mistaking his attitude] No, really, Fred, you’ve no idea the feeling that came over me when she said that. “Well,” I said, “Betty, what on earth are we going to do!” Because the tickets were all sold, you know. “Well,” she said, “Paula,—the only thing I see to do, is to have you step right into Clara Sheppard’s role.” “Me!” I said. “Yes,” she said; “you are the only person in my opinion who is qualified to play the part.” “But, my dear,” I said, “I’ve never stepped on a stage in my life!” “That is absolutely inconsequential,” she said, “it is entirely a matter of dramatic instinct. And,” she said, [She simpers a bit here and moves around from the right of the little table where she has been standing to the back of her husband’s chair, at the left of the table.] “you have that—to a far greater degree than you’ve any idea of.” [He makes a sound of dry amusement.] No, really, Fred, everyone was saying it was a positive tragedy that you couldn’t have been there to see me—I never forgot myself once. [She rests her hand on his left shoulder, and he reaches up and takes her hand.]

Ritter. What are you going to do now, become an actress?

Mrs. R. No, but it surprised me so, the way everybody enthused; because I didn’t think I’d done anything so extraordinary—I just walked onto the stage, and said what I’d been told to say, and walked off again. [She emphasizes this last phrase by an indefinite gesture of nonchalance in the direction of the door at her left.] And yet everybody seemed to think it was wonderful. Why, Nelly Fell said she’d never seen even a professional actress so absolutely unconscious. [He makes a sound of amusement.] Really, Fred, you ought to have heard them. Why, they said if they didn’t know, they never in the world would have believed that it was my first offense.

Ritter. You mustn’t believe everything these women tell you; they’ll tell you anything to get their names in the paper.

Mrs. R. Well, it wasn’t only they that said it;—people that I didn’t even know said it. Why, Mrs. Pampinelli had a letter from a woman away out at Glenside that happened to see the performance, and she said that, at times, my repose was positively uncanny. And the papers simply raved; especially “The Evening Breeze.” I have it upstairs, I must show it to you. It said that it didn’t understand how I had escaped the public eye so long. [She glances at the cuckoo-clock over the door at the left, and, in doing so, notices a book that has been left lying on the chair below the door: she steps over and picks it up.] I was awfully sorry you couldn’t have been there, Fred. I was going to write you about it when Mrs. Pampinelli first spoke to me about going on, but there was so little time, you see. And then, I didn’t think you’d mind;—especially on account of its being for charity. [He is very carefully putting ashes on the little tray. She stands holding the book, looking at him. And there is a slight pause.] You don’t mind my going on, do you, Fred?

Ritter. [Rather slowly] No,—I don’t mind, if you’re able to get away with it.

Mrs. R. [Trailing across back of his chair] I didn’t think you would.

Ritter. [Raising his hand from the table quietly] But a—[She comes to a stop and regards him over her left shoulder.] I don’t want any of these women exploiting you for their own vanity. [She doesn’t quite encompass his meaning, and stands looking at him for a second. Then she abstractedly lays the book down on the table beside him. There is a very definite ring at the front door-bell.] I guess that’s some of the people. [She starts towards the hallway.]

Ritter. [Preparing to rise] Where do you do this thing, here?

Mrs. R. [Turning to him and indicating the general arrangement] Yes—just the way we have it fixed.

Ritter. [Rising briskly and crossing to the table below the piano at the right, while Mrs. R. continues to the center-door and stands looking toward the front door. Jenny appears in the left hallway.] I think I’ll beat it upstairs.

Mrs. R. [Turning to Jenny] I guess that’s some of the people, Jenny. [She comes forward towards Ritter again.]

Jenny. Yes, mam. [She passes back of Mrs. Ritter and along out into the right hallway to answer the door.]

Mrs. R. Won’t you wait and see the rehearsal, Fred? [He is gathering up the telegrams from the table, where he left them earlier.]

Ritter. [Turning and going up towards the center-door, thrusting the telegrams into his inside pocket] No, I think I’d rather wait and see the show. [He passes her, to her left.]

Mrs. R. [Turning and trailing up towards the center-door after him] It’s really very interesting.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Out at the front door] You see how considerate I am of you, Jenny, letting myself in? [Mr. and Mrs. Ritter stop in the center-door and look toward the front door.]

Jenny. [At the front door] Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Pampinelli.

Mrs. R. [Turning quickly to Ritter at her left] You can’t go up now, Fred, she’ll see you.

Mrs. Pampinelli and Ritter, together.

Mrs. P. Well, I daresay you’ll have to open this door quite often enough tonight without my troubling you.

Ritter. [Coming back into the room with a slight gesture of annoyance] I don’t want to have to listen to her gab. [He goes over to the mantelpiece at the left and takes up his position there, while Mrs. Ritter, with a movement to him to be silent, drifts down beside the piano at the right.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Coming into view from the right hallway] Well, I suppose I’m still the shining example of punctuality. [She sweeps thru the center-door, carrying a large black-bear muff, a fan of black ostrich-plumes, and a note-book and pencil.] How do you do, Mr. Ritter,—[She goes towards Mrs. Ritter.]

Ritter. [Nodding] How do you do.

Mrs. Pampinelli. I’m glad to see you.

Mrs. Ritter. [Moving towards Mrs. P.] Hello, Betty.

Mrs. Pampinelli. Hello, Paula child,—[Kisses her] how are you, dear? [Mr. Spindler hurries in from the right hallway, carrying several books. Mrs. P. steps to the table below the piano.] Will you give those things to Mrs. Ritter, Mr. Spindler, she’ll set them down somewhere. [She sets her own encumbrances down on the table, and Mrs. Ritter passes back of her to Spindler.]

Spindler. [Standing in the middle of the room, toward the back] Certainly, certainly.

Mrs. Ritter. Good evening, Mr. Spindler.

Spindler. Good evening, good evening. [Jenny comes in from the right hallway, takes the tray and glass from the hall table, and goes out the left hallway.]

Mrs. Ritter. I’ll just take these.

Spindler. [Giving her the books and a manuscript] If you please.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Crossing directly to Ritter] Florence McCrickett told me you were back; she saw you getting into a taxicab at the station. [Giving him her hand] I’m glad to see you.

Ritter. I just got in.

Mrs. Pampinelli. And I suppose you’ve already heard about the great event?

Ritter. Yes, she’s just been telling me. [They laugh together.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, my dear, you may count that day lost that you missed it. [She half turns to Mrs. Ritter, who is engaged in conversation with Spindler.] Mayn’t he, Paula? [But Paula hasn’t heard what she’s been saying, so she just looks at her and gives an inane little laugh. Mrs. Pampinelli continues to Ritter.] Although you’ll have an opportunity tomorrow night; unless you’re going to run away again before that.

Ritter. No, I’ll be here now till after Thanksgiving. [Mrs. Ritter leaves Spindler and goes over to a small table at the extreme right, below the casement-window, where she sets the books and manuscript down.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Turning from Ritter and crossing back again to the table at the right below the piano] Wonderful! Did you hear that, Paula?

Mrs. R. What is it, dear?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Mr. Ritter says he will be here for the performance tomorrow night.

Mrs. R. Yes.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Unfastening her fur neckpiece] So you will have an opportunity after all of revealing to him what gems of talent the unfathomed caves of matrimony bear. [They both laugh.]

Mrs. R. [Picking up Mrs. Pampinelli’s muff from the table and taking the neckpiece] I’ll just take these, Betty.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Settling her beads] Anywhere at all, dear. [Mrs. R. starts to the right.] Oh, and by the way, Paula—[Mrs. Ritter stops and turns to her.]

Mrs. R. Yes?

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Indicating the books on the table below the window] There’s a remarkable article in one of those books I brought, on a—gesture.

Mrs. R. [Looking at the books] Yes?

Mrs. Pampinelli. The little gray book I think it is, if I’m not mistaken. [She turns to her left and acknowledges Mr. Spindler with a touch of state.] Mr. Spindler—[He returns a smiling and very snappy little bow.] brought it to my attention,—[She turns back again to Paula, who has gone up at the right of the piano and is putting the furs on the partition-seat, while Spindler, becoming suddenly conscious that Ritter is looking at him, stiffens abruptly, glances at Ritter, and turns back again to Mrs. Pampinelli.] and it really is remarkable. So many of my own ideas—things that I have been advocating for years. I brought it especially for you, Paula,—so you must read it when you have time. [She picks up her lead-pencil from the little table and, tapping it against her right temple, thinks profoundly.] What is that wonderful line of Emerson’s that I’m so fond of—something about our unexpressed thoughts coming back to accuse us—[Turning to Spindler] You know all those things, Mr. Spindler.

Spindler. [Pedantically] Coming back to us “with an alienated majesty.”

Mrs. Pampinelli. That is the one I mean. [She turns back again to Paula, who has, by this time, come forward again at the right of the piano, while Mr. Spindler, again becoming conscious that Ritter is looking at him, gives him another glance, this time with a shade of resentment in it, and, coughing briefly, as an emphasis of his dignity, which Ritter’s general attitude somehow suggests is not being sufficiently esteemed, turns back to Mrs. Pampinelli.] Well, that is exactly what occurred to me when I read that article—My own thoughts returning to me from an alienated majesty. [She finishes her version of the quotation to Spindler and Mr. Ritter.] Oh, by the way,—[She gives a little mirthless laugh.] I’m afraid I’ve neglected to introduce Mr. Spindler [Indicating Ritter with a very casual gesture of her left hand, and picking up her lead-pencil from the little table] This is Mrs. Ritter’s husband, Mr. Spindler. [Spindler strides towards Ritter and extends his hand with that vigor which usually characterizes the greetings of unimportant persons.]

Spindler. Glad!

Ritter. [Tonelessly] How are you?

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Addressing Ritter directly] Mr. Spindler is a young man who has made quite an exhaustive study of the Little Theatre Movement throughout the country; [Spindler moves back towards his former position, and Paula, over at the right, takes a piece of fudge from a box on the little table below the casement-window.] and is working very hard to bring about something of the same kind here. [Ritter inclines his head, and Spindler listens to Mrs. Pampinelli, wreathed in smiles.] And is going to succeed, too, aren’t you, Mr. Spindler?

Spindler. [With a kind of pert assurance] Never fell down on a big job yet. [He gives a self-conscious little laugh and glances at Ritter, under whose coldly-appraising eye the laugh freezes instantly into a short, hollow cough. Then he turns away.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. I’m sure he has all the qualifications.

Spindler. [With a wooden smile, and saluting] Thank you, thank you.

Mrs. Pampinelli. Hasn’t he, Paula?

Mrs. Ritter. [Nibbling at the fudge] Yes indeed, Mr. Spindler’s quite indispensable. [Spindler gives her a pert little nod, by way of acknowledgment.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [To Mrs. Ritter] I think that’s what I shall have to call him hereafter,—[Turning to Spindler] the indispensable Mr. Spindler. [They all laugh,—a trifle more than the brilliancy of the remark should reasonably occasion, and Mr. Spindler accounts it even worthy a salute.]

Spindler. Bouquets were falling [Here the front door-bell gives two sharp little staccato rings.] thick and fast. [He starts towards the center-door.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, it’s true—

Spindler. [Speaking directly to Mrs. Ritter] I’ll answer it. [He hurries out into the right hallway.]

Mrs. P. and Mrs. R., speaking together.

Mrs. P. I know I don’t know what on earth I should do without him.

Mrs. R. [Addressing Spindler as he hurries out the hallway] All right, if you will, Mr. Spindler.

Spindler. [Calling back] Sure!

Mrs. Pampinelli. He is one of those rare persons who never forsakes one in the hour of quotation. [She turns to Mrs. Ritter, who is chewing fudge at her right.] What are you eating, Paula?

Mrs. Ritter. A bit of fudge. Would you like some, Betty?

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Very definitely] No, thank you, dear.

Mrs. Ritter. [Indicating the table below the casement-window] There’s some here.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Raising her hand in a gesture of finality, and speaking with conviction] I never eat immediately before using my voice. And you should not, either, Paula,—particularly candy. [She moves across to the left to Mr. Ritter. She is an imposing woman, in her late fifties, with a wealth of false hair, perfectly done, and a martial bearing. She is one of those matrons who is frequently referred to in the suburban weeklies as a “leading spirit”; and this particular description has always so flattered Mrs. Pampinelli’s particular vanity, that she overlooks no opportunity of justifying it: an effort that has resulted in a certain grandeur of voice and manner; which, rather fortunately, becomes the distinction of her person. She is gowned in sapphire-blue velvet, close-fitting, with an independent, triangular train, from the waist, probably four yards long. Her necklace, comb, the buckles on her black-velvet slippers, and her rings, are all touched with sapphire.]

Mrs. Ritter. [Looking vaguely at the fudge-box] There’s so much of it here. [Jenny appears from the left hallway.]

Mrs. P. and Mrs. R., speaking together.

Mrs. P. [Coming to Ritter’s right] Very tragic about poor Sheppard, wasn’t it, Mr. Ritter?

Mrs. R. [Going up to the center-door, and speaking to Jenny as she goes] Mr. Spindler is answering the door, Jenny, you needn’t bother.

Ritter and Jenny, speaking together.

Ritter. [To Mrs. Pampinelli] Yes, it was—too bad.

Jenny. [To Mrs. Ritter] Oh, all right, then. [She withdraws, and Mrs. Ritter stands looking out into the right hallway.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. I suppose Paula wrote you.

Ritter. Yes.

Mrs. Pampinelli. Dear me—I don’t know when anything has so upset me. [Ritter stands looking at the end of his cigar and Mrs. Pampinelli looks straight ahead.] I don’t believe I closed an eye the entire night,—wondering where on earth I should find someone to play his wife’s part. [Ritter glances at her, as he places the cigar in his mouth, and Mrs. Pampinelli looks at him quickly.] Because, of course, you know that Mrs. Sheppard was to have played the part that Paula plays.

Ritter. Yes, so she told me. [Mrs. Ritter, still nibbling at the fudge, wanders down and stands in the middle of the room.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. But we only had three days to get someone; and it didn’t seem possible to me that anyone could memorize that part in that length of time. [Mrs. Ritter touches her hair and makes a little sound of amusement,—a kind of modest acknowledgment of the brilliancy of her achievement.] So I thought at first—of having Clara Sheppard go on anyway, and I should make an announcement; but, you see, Mr. Sheppard was buried on the fourteenth, and that was the night of the performance; and as I thought the matter over, it seemed to me that perhaps it was just a little too much to expect of her—[Ritter gives her another glance.] Considering her experience as an actress, I mean.

Ritter. [Taking the cigar from his mouth and speaking with a shade of deliberation] Couldn’t she have kept his death a secret,—until after the performance?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, I thought of that, too; [Ritter looks at her steadily.] but, you see, it was three days,—[He nods, understandingly.] and he was so very well known. [She moves back across the room towards the table below the piano, and Ritter stands looking after her. Simultaneously, there is a frantic giggle from the right hallway. Mrs. Ritter goes up to the center-door, looks in the direction of the laughter, and waves her handkerchief, while Mrs. Pampinelli, passing below the table, gathers up her note-book and pencil and continues to the table below the casement-window, where she secures the manuscript. Ritter steps forward from his position before the mantelpiece, and disposes of some ashes on the little table-tray.]

Mrs. Fell. [Out in the right hallway] Paula, that’s a very dangerous young man you have on that door tonight.

Mrs. Ritter. [Calling to her] I think it’s very kind of Mr. Spindler. [Mrs. Pampinelli comes around in front of the big arm-chair below the casement-window.]

Mrs. Fell. [Coming into view, with considerable flourish] Kind! My dear, I haven’t heard anything like it since I was twenty! [She gives a little wave of her gorgeous, single white ostrich-plume fan at Mrs. Pampinelli.] Hello, Betty! [Then to Mrs. Ritter] How are you, darling?

Mrs. Ritter. Hello, Nelly. [Nelly kisses her.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Enthroning herself in the arm-chair at the right] Is it really possible!

Mrs. Fell. [Turning from Mrs. Ritter and hurrying through the center-door] You’re a sweet child! [Extending the fan towards Mrs. Pampinelli, and coming quickly forward to the table at the right below the piano] Yes, and I should have been here every night at this hour if it weren’t for that dreadful officer up at the parkway! [She sets her fan and black-velvet bag on the table. Spindler comes in from the right hallway and engages in conversation with Mrs. Ritter in the centre-door.] He seems to take a fiendish delight in selecting my car, of all the millions that pass there at this hour, to do this! [She extends her right arm and hand, after the fashion of traffic-officers.] So I told him yesterday afternoon, I said, “Look here, young man!” [She points her forefinger as though reproving the officer.] “You needn’t expect any Christmas-present from me next Christmas, for you just—won’t—get it. Not till you change your tactics.” So he says, after this, he’s just going to let me go ahead and run into a trolley-car;—see how I like that. [Mrs. Pampinelli, making marginal notes in the manuscript, laughs faintly.] “Well,” I said, “it’d be a change, anyway,—from being stopped all the time.” [She abstractedly picks up her fan again.] I don’t think he likes my chauffeur. And I don’t blame him; I don’t like him myself. He drives too slow—[She starts for the center-door.] He’s like an old woman. [She sees Ritter, peering at her, and starts abruptly.] Well, for Mercy’s sake, Frederick Ritter, you don’t mean to tell me that’s you!

Ritter. I was here a minute ago.

Mrs. Fell. [Laughing flightily] Well, I declare! I don’t know what’s happening to my eyes! [Turning to Mrs. Pampinelli] I saw him standing there, [Turning back again and starting towards Ritter, with her hand extended] but I thought it was one of the other gentlemen! How are you, dear boy? [He takes her hand and stoops over as though to kiss her. She turns her head away quickly.] Stop it! Frederick Ritter! [Mrs. Pampinelli glances over, then resumes her notes. Mrs. Fell half-turns to Mrs. Ritter, who is still talking to Mr. Spindler up at the center-door.] Paula!—do you see what this bad boy of yours is doing? [Paula just looks and laughs meaninglessly, and resumes her conversation with Spindler.] What brought you back so soon?

Ritter. [Assuming the attitude and tone of a lover] I got thinking of you.

Mrs. Fell. [Touching her hair] I thought you were out in Seattle or South Carolina or one of those funny places.

Ritter. [Leaning a bit closer and speaking more softly] I couldn’t keep away from you any longer. [Nelly darts a swift glance at him.]

Mrs. Fell. [Starting towards the right] Don’t play with fire, Frederick—[He laughs hard. She pauses in the middle of the room and turns and looks at him.] You know what they say about widows, and I’ve been all kinds. [She continues over towards Mrs. Pampinelli.] Oh, Professor Pampinelli! [Turning and addressing Ritter directly] I call her Professor, she knows so much. [Turning back to Mrs. Pampinelli] Mrs. P.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Looking up suddenly] I beg your pardon, Nelly dear—I didn’t know you were speaking to me.

Mrs. Fell. I want to know if you can take me home in your car tonight?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Why, certainly, dear.

Mrs. Fell. My chauffeur has been deviling me for the past two days about some boxing-bee,—or wrestling-match or something that he wants to see; and I told him he could go if there were someone here to take me home.

Mrs. Pampinelli. I can take you, of course.

Mrs. Fell. All right, then, I can chase him; [She turns to the left.] I won’t hear any more about that. Oh, Mr. Spindler!

Spindler. Yes, mam? [Excuses himself to Mrs. Ritter, who steps into the left hallway and beckons with her finger for Jenny.]

Mrs. Fell. Would you mind doing a favor for a very old lady?

Spindler. [Who has hurried forward and is standing in the middle of the room, at attention.] You know what I told you out at the door? [Nelly gives a shriek, and giggles.]

Mrs. Fell. [Looking coyly over Spindler’s shoulder at Ritter] Oh, you hear that, Frederick Ritter? You have a rival on the premises. Mr. Spindler told me out at the door tonight,—that my will was his pleasure.

Ritter. [Looking at the tip of his cigar] San Juan is never dead while Mr. Spindler lives. [There is a general laugh.]

Spindler. [Turning to Ritter] Say, that’s pretty good!

Mrs. Fell. Yes, I was afraid he was something of a gay deceiver.

Spindler. [Speaking directly to Mrs. Fell] Only one way to find out. [Mrs. Fell laughs deprecatingly and sweeps the tip of her fan across his nose.]

Mrs. Fell. Naughty boy. [She giggles a little more, then becomes practical.] Well then, I’ll tell you what you may do for me, Mr. Spindler, if you don’t mind. [Jenny appears in the left hallway and Mrs. Ritter gives her an order of some sort, which appears to require a bit of explanation.] Go out to my chauffeur, [She turns him round by the shoulder and they move up towards the center-door.] you’ll probably find him asleep in the car, and tell him I said it’s all right,—he can go along—that Mrs. Pampinelli will take me home in her car.

Spindler. [Hurrying out the right hallway] Righto! [Jenny withdraws.]

Mrs. Fell. [Standing in the center-door and calling after him] Like a good boy. [She turns, to find Mrs. Ritter at her left in the center-door. She takes her arm and they come forward.] Come in here, Paula Ritter, and explain to me why [They stop in the middle of the room, just above the line on which Ritter is standing.] you didn’t tell me my—lover [She peers around in front of Paula’s shoulder at Ritter.] was coming back today?

Mrs. Ritter. [Laughing faintly] My dear, I didn’t know it myself until twenty minutes ago.

Mrs. Fell. [Becoming instantly rigid, and piercing Mrs. Ritter with a look] You don’t mean to tell me he returned unexpectedly?

Mrs. Ritter. He never even sent a wire.

Mrs. Fell. [Moving over to the right, to the little table below the piano] I’m surprised at you, Frederick. I consider that the supreme indiscretion in a husband—[She lays her fan down on the table.] to return unexpectedly. Isn’t it, Paula? [She commences to unfasten her cloak.]

Mrs. Ritter. [Moving over to help her] I never got such a surprise in my life.

Mrs. Fell. It has probably wrecked more perfectly good homes than any other one thing in the calendar. [She slips her cloak off her shoulders, and Mrs. Ritter, who has passed back of her, takes it. It is a flowing affair in black and silver, with voluminous kimona sleeves edged with black fur, and a deep circular collar of silver-cloth and fur.]

Mrs. Ritter. I love your cape, Nelly.

Mrs. Fell. [Settling her ornaments] Do you really?

Mrs. Ritter. [Examining it] Beautiful.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Reaching for it] Let me see it, Paula.

Mrs. Ritter. [Handing it to her] Where’s your seal, Nelly?

Mrs. Fell. I thought I wouldn’t take it out this winter; I got so tired looking at it last year. I want to have that collar and cuffs taken off, anyway, before I wear it again;—there’s too much skunk there.

Mrs. Pampinelli. This is perfectly gorgeous, dear. [To Mrs. Ritter] Isn’t it?

Mrs. Ritter. [Picking up Nelly’s fan from the table] Lovely. And isn’t this sweet? [Mrs. Pampinelli takes the fan from Mrs. Ritter and returns the wrap.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. Charming.

Mrs. Fell. I’m so glad you like it;—I was afraid at first perhaps it might make me look a little too much like a bride.

Ritter. [With mock derision] Ha! [Nelly snaps her head toward him and pins him with a narrow glare.]

Mrs. Fell. Don’t be peevish, Frederick—

Mrs. Ritter. [To Mrs. Pampinelli, as she takes the fan from her and replaces it on the table] Isn’t he terrible!

Mrs. Fell. It isn’t my fault that your wife is a great actress. [She gives a comic nod and wink at Mrs. Ritter. Ritter laughs.]

Mrs. Ritter. [Starting towards the door up above the casement-window, at the right, with Mrs. Fell’s cape] Now, Fred Ritter, you just stop that!

Mrs. Pampinelli. Never mind him, Paula—[Paula goes out with the cape.] He’ll probably change his tune after tomorrow night. [Mrs. Fell picks up her fan and commences to fan herself.]

Ritter. [Standing over above the table at the left, smoking] I’m thinking of what happened to poor Jimmy Sheppard. [Jenny comes in at the left hallway, carrying a small punch-bowl filled with claret, which she sets down carefully on the little stand in the hallway. Mrs. Ritter re-enters from the door on the right and crosses over to Jenny, whom she assists.]

Mrs. Fell. [Strolling across towards Ritter, fanning herself] Oh, I suppose it must be very difficult for the marvelous male, to suddenly find himself obliged to bask in the reflected glory of a mere wife. [Mrs. Pampinelli laughs, over her notes.] For I’ve never known one yet who was able to do it gracefully. [She flips the tip of the fan at Ritter’s nose. Mrs. Ritter gives Jenny a direction of some kind and Jenny goes out again at the left hallway.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [As Mrs. Fell saunters back again across the room] Well, perhaps Mr. Ritter will show himself consistently masculine in this instance, and do the exceptional thing. [Mrs. Ritter follows Jenny out.]

Ritter. I suppose that’s what you’d call veiled sarcasm, isn’t it? [Mrs. Pampinelli laughs and rises.]

Mrs. Fell. [Standing in the middle of the room] I shouldn’t say it was veiled at all. [Moving towards the table below the piano] I don’t think it’s even draped.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Laughing still, and coming to the little table] Here’s the manuscript, Nelly.

Mrs. Fell. [Stepping closer to the table] Yes, dear.

Ritter. What are you going to do now, keep on giving this show?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, not this particular one, Mr. Ritter, no; but we are going to continue giving shows.

Ritter. What’s the idea?

Mrs. Fell. They’re to be for different charities.

Mrs. Pampinelli. And then they will afford the boys and girls an opportunity of developing themselves as artists.

Ritter. What are they going to do, all go on the stage?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, hardly all of them will go;—but those that we feel have sufficient talent we will encourage to go on, by all means.

Ritter. Do you think Mrs. Ritter has sufficient talent?

Mrs. Fell. She’s wonderful, Fred, really.

Mrs. Pampinelli. Yes, I should say that Paula had a very remarkable talent.

Ritter. Well, what will you do about her?

Mrs. Pampinelli. How do you mean, Mr. Ritter, what will we do about her?

Ritter. Why, I mean,—you’d hardly encourage her to go on the stage, would you?

Mrs. Pampinelli. And why not?

Ritter. Why, what about her home? [Nelly Fell touches her hair and gives Mrs. Pampinelli a look of amused impatience.] She couldn’t very well walk away and leave that, could she?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, personally, Mr. Ritter, I have always felt that, where it is a question of talent, one should not allow himself to be deterred by purely personal considerations.

Mrs. Fell. She’s really awfully good, Fred! You wait till you see—You’ll want her to go yourself.

Ritter. [Stepping quietly to the table at the left and disposing of some cigar-ashes] She’ll have to be pretty good.

Mrs. Fell. Won’t he, Betty?

Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, as far as that is concerned, I think that the question of whether to be or or not to be an actress, is one that every woman must, at some time or other in her life, decide for herself. [Spindler hurries in from the right hallway and down to Mrs. Fell’s left, where he stands at attention, saluting, of course, as usual. Mr. Spindler is full of salutes. He was in the army;—drafted ten weeks before the armistice; and subjected throughout the long term of his service to the dangers and exposure of a clerkship in the Personnel at Upton. And he’s never gotten over it; being of that immature type of mind upon which the letter of the Military makes a profound impression. He’s a peppy person, thin and stilted,—in dinner clothes,—with sleek hair and goggle glasses: one of that distressing student-order that is inevitably to be found in the retinue of some Mrs. Pampinelli,—her social status and constant championship of so-called artistic movements affording him a legitimate indulgence of his particular weaknesses. So he becomes a kind of lead-pencil-bearer extraordinary to her ladyship; and her ladyship tolerates him,—for a variety of reasons; not the least of which is his unfailing attitude of acquiescence in all her opinions. And she has so many opinions,—and on so many different subjects, that this feature of Mr. Spindler’s disposition is far from inconsiderable. Then, he has a most highly developed faculty for small correctnesses,—an especially valuable asset, in view of the enormous amount of detail work incidental to Mrs. Pampinelli’s vast activities. He reminds her of things, or, “brings them to her attention,” as she puts it. For Mr. Spindler is one of those—fortunately few—people who remembers things—word for word—even the things he’s read—And he appears to have read most everything. And he quotes incessantly. As Mrs. Pampinelli has already observed of him, “he is one of those rare persons who never forsakes one in the hour of quotation.”] Look here, Nelly.

Mrs. Fell. Yes, dear. [Mrs. Ritter comes in from the left hallway carrying several punch-glasses, which she puts down on the hallway table.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Indicating a certain line in the manuscript with her lead-pencil] There are a couple of little changes here on page twelve—[Mrs. Fell opens her lorgnon and looks at the manuscript.] I have them marked.

Mrs. Fell. [Becoming conscious of Spindler at her left] Pardon me, Betty. [Turning to Spindler] Did you tell him, Mr. Spindler?

Spindler. Yes, mam; he’s gone on his way rejoicing.

Mrs. Fell. You’re a sweet child.

Spindler. [Snapping his salute] Thank you. [He does an about-face and goes up to Mrs. Ritter,—Ritter watching him with an expression susceptible of infinite interpretation.]

Mrs. Fell. The only man I’ve met in a long time that has made me wish I were—ten years younger.

Ritter. Ha!

Mrs. Fell. [Pertly] Outside of you, of course.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [With a touch of wearied impatience] Look here, dear.

Mrs. Fell. [Stepping quickly to the table again and re-adjusting her lorgnon] Yes, I beg your pardon.

Mrs. Pampinelli. You see, in this line here,—the author has employed a defective verb in the perfect tense. [Mrs. Fell looks suddenly at her and then right back to the manuscript again. Ritter is watching them closely.] Would you come here for a moment, Mr. Spindler?

Spindler. Certainly, certainly. [Excuses himself to Mrs. Ritter, with whom he has been chatting, and comes down briskly to Mrs. Fell’s left.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. If you please.

Mrs. Fell. [Appearing to have some difficulty locating the defective verb] Where is that, now, that you were saying, Betty?

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Indicating with the point of the pencil] Right there, dear. [Nelly just looks at the spot, through her lorgnon.] This is the point I was speaking to you about last night, Mr. Spindler.

Spindler. [Securing his goggles] Oh, yes, yes! [Ritter draws Mrs. Ritter’s attention to the group down at the table. She reproves him with a steady stare. He smiles and shakes his head hopelessly.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. You see, this author has employed a defective here, in the perfect tense.

Spindler. [Looking closely] Ah, yes, I see.

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Looking at him directly] So I have changed it. [He straightens up and looks at her, and Mrs. Fell looks from one to the other.]

Spindler. A very good change. [He nods and crosses over to the left, passing below the table at the left. Ritter watches him until he takes up his position just below the mantelpiece, rather ill at ease under Ritter’s gaze.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. I think so. So, if you’ll just watch that Nelly. [She picks up the manuscript.]

Mrs. Fell. All right, I’ll watch it. [She reaches for her bag and takes out a lip-stick. Jenny appears from the left hallway with a tray of cakes, which Mrs. Ritter assists her in making room for on the hall table.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Starting for the center-door] I must show it to Paula, it’s her line. [The door-bell rings.] Paula child. [Jenny passes back of Mrs. Ritter and goes out into the right hallway to answer the door-bell.]

Mrs. Ritter. [Eating a cake] Yes, dear? [Mrs. Pampinelli calls her attention to the change in the manuscript. Mrs. Fell is making up her lips down at the table below the piano. Ritter is watching her, and Spindler is watching Ritter, and trying to assume his general deportment.]

Ritter. Are you in the show, Nelly?

Mrs. Fell. [Without turning, and applying the lip-stick, with the aid of the little mirror in her hand-bag] Who, me?

Ritter. Yes.

Mrs. Fell. [Half-turning, and giving him a melting look] Yes;—I play a chicken. [She returns to her mirror.]

Ritter. [Casually] In the last act, I suppose. [Nelly snaps her head around and pierces him with one of her looks.]

Mrs. Fell. No, and not in the last stages, either. [She resumes her make-up. Nelly is forever making up. But, she does know how to do it. Of course, she should, considering the years of her experience in the art. For Nelly Fell’s age amounts to an achievement; one of those attainments so absolutely undisputed that it is perfectly permissible to refer to it in any gathering. She says she’ll “soon be sixty”; but the short and simple annals of society record flutterings of the lady as far back as the first term of President Grant. And she’s still fluttering—a perennial ingenue, full of brittle moves and staccato vocalisms. She looks like a little French marquise, so chic, and twittery—and rich. For, of course, Nelly is wealthy—enormously so; it would be utterly impossible to have her hair and not have money; the feature is financial in itself; so silver-white, with a lovely bandau of small, pale-pink leaves, tipped with diamond dewdrops; all heightened tremendously by the creation in black velvet she is wearing. This gown is heavily trimmed with silver, and quite sleeveless, with two panels of the goods fastened at the waist on either side and trailing at least a yard. She has a preference for diamonds and pearls, obviously, for her ear-rings, dog-collar, bracelets and rings are all of those gems, and her long, triple-string necklace is of pearls. Altogether, Nelly is a very gorgeous little old lady—from the topmost ringlet of her aristocratic hair, to the pearl buckles on her tiny black-velvet slippers.]

Spindler. Mrs. Fell is the official promptress.

Mrs. Fell. [Turning her head and looking at Ritter] I prompt everybody. [She replaces her lip-stick in the hand-bag.]

Ritter. Yes?

Mrs. Fell. [Putting the hand-bag down again on the table] As well as lending my moral support.

Ritter. Yes? [Spindler laughs.]

Mrs. Fell. [To Ritter] You bold thing!

Hossefrosse. [Coming into view from the right hallway] Good evening, everybody!

Mrs. Pampinelli. [Turning to him, from Mrs. Ritter, with whom she has been discussing the change in the manuscript] Oh, good evening, Mr. Hossefrosse. [They shake hands.]

Mrs. Ritter. Mr. Hossefrosse. [Mrs. Pampinelli comes forward into the room again, bringing the manuscript with her.]

Hossefrosse. Mrs. Ritter—good evening. [Mrs. Ritter asks him if he will have a glass of claret and he says yes, so she proceeds to fill him out one.]

Mrs. Pampinelli. I hope the rest of the people aren’t far behind you.