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.