MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Agitated.] Good-morning, Doctor.  Fortunate that I found you alone.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Dryly.] Hy’re you, Mrs. Batholommey?

The REV.  HENRY BATHOLOMMEY now enters.  He is a man of about forty-five, wearing the frock coat, high waistcoat and square topped hat of a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church.

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.  Hy’re, Henry?

The REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY bows. WILLIAM has returned from his errand and entered the room,—­a picture-book under his arm.  He sits up by the window, absorbed in the pictures—­unnoticed by the others.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Closing the door left open by PETER, shutting out the sound of his voice.] Well, Doctor ... [She pauses for a moment to catch her breath and wipe her eyes.] I suppose you’ve told him he’s got to die.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Eyeing MRS. BATHOLOMMEY with disfavour.] Who’s got to die?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY.  Why, Mr. Grimm, of course.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Amazed.] Does the whole damned town know it?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY.  Oh!

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.  Easy, Doctor.  You consulted Mr. Grimm’s lawyer and his wife told my wife.

DR. MACPHERSON.  He gabbed, eh?  Hang the professional man who tells things to his wife.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY.  Doctor!

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [With solicitude.] I greatly grieve to hear that Mr. Grimm has an incurable malady.  His heart, I understand. [Shakes his head.

DR. MACPHERSON.  He’s not to be told.  Is that clear?  He may die in twenty minutes—­may outlive us all—­probably will.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Pointing to REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.] It seems to me, Doctor, that if you can’t do any more, it’s his turn.  It’s a wonder you Doctors don’t baptize the babies.

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.  Rose!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY.  At the last minute, he’ll want to make a will—­and you know he hasn’t made one.  He’ll want to remember the church and his charities and his friends; and if he dies before he can carry out his intentions, the minister will be blamed as usual.  It’s not fair.

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.  Sh!  Sh!  My dear!  These private matters—­

DR. MACPHERSON.  I’ll trouble you, Mistress Batholommey, to attend to your own affairs.  Did you never hear the story of the lady who flattened her nose—­sticking it into other people’s business?

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.  Doctor!  Doctor!  I can’t have that!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY.  Let him talk, Henry.  No one in this town pays any attention to Dr. MacPherson since he took up with spiritualism.

REV.  MR. BATHOLOMMEY.  Rose! [He motions to her to be silent, as PETER, coming up the stairs from the cellar, is heard singing.

PETER.  “Drop in the fat some apples red,
  (Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)
  Then spread it on a piece of bread,
  (Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)”