LAURA.  So I thought if we all called him. You heard when I called, didn’t you?  Oh no, that was William.

MRS. R. Who’s William?

LAURA.  Didn’t you know I was married?

MRS. R. No.  Did he die?

LAURA.  Well, now, couldn’t we call him?

MRS. R. I daresay.  He won’t like it.

LAURA.  He must.  He belongs to us.

MRS. R. Yes, I suppose—­as I wouldn’t divorce him, though he wanted me to. 
I said marriages were made in Heaven.

A VOICE.  Luckily, they don’t last there.

(Greatly startled, they look around, and perceive presently in the mirror over the mantelpiece the apparition of a figure which they seem dimly to recognise.  A tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary type, with long side-whiskers, and dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, has taken up his position to one side of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass in eye, with folded arms resting on the mantel-slab and a stylish hat in one hand, be gazes upon the assembled family with quizzical benevolence.)

MRS. R. (placidly).  What, is that you, Thomas?

THOMAS (with the fashionable lisp of the fifties, always substituting ‘th’ for ’s’).  How do you do, Susan?

(There follows a pause, broken courageously by Mrs. James.)

LAURA.  Are you my Father?

THOMAS.  I don’t know.  Who are you?  Who are all of you?

LAURA.  Perhaps I had better explain.  This is our dear Mother:  her you recognise.  You are her husband; we are your daughters.  This is Martha, this is Julia, and I’m Laura.

THOMAS.  Is this true, Susan?  Are these our progeny?

MRS. R. Yes—­that is—­yes, Thomas.

THOMAS.  I should not have known it.  They all look so much older.

LAURA.  Than when you left us?  Naturally!

THOMAS.  Than me> I meant.  But you all seem flourishing.

LAURA.  Because we lived longer.  Papa, when did you die?

JULIA.  Oh!  Laura!

THOMAS.  I don’t know, child.

LAURA.  Don’t know?  How don’t you know?

THOMAS.  Because in prisons, and other lunatic asylums, one isn’t allowed to know anything.

MRS. R. A lunatic asylum!  Oh, Thomas, what brought you there?

THOMAS.  A damned life, Susan—­with you, and others.

JULIA.  Oh, Laura, why did you do this?

MARTHA.  If this goes on, I shall leave the room.

LAURA.  Where are those others now?

THOMAS.  Three of them I see before me.  You, Laura, used to scream horribly.  When you were teething, I was sleepless.  Your Mother insisted on having you in the room with us.  No wonder I went elsewhere.

MARTHA.  I’m going!

THOMAS.  Don’t, Martha!  You were the quietest of the lot.  When you were two years old I even began to like you.  You were the exception.