[He opens the door, carrying a big bottle in his hand; hailing the BATHOLOMMEYS cheerfully.] Good-morning, good people. [He puts the jug on the sideboard and hangs up the key. The BATHOLOMMEYS look sadly at PETER. MRS. BATHOLOMMEY in the fore-ground tries to smile pleasantly, but can only assume the peculiarly pained expression of a person about to break terrible news.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Rising to the occasion—warmly grasping PETER’S hand.] Ah, my dear friend! Many thanks for the flowers William brought us, and the noble cheque you sent me. We’re still enjoying the vegetables you generously provided. I did relish the squash.
PETER. [Catching a glimpse of MRS. BATHOLOMMEY’S gloomy expression.] Anything distressing you this morning, Mrs. Batholommey?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. No, no.... I hope you’re feeling well—er—I don’t mean that—I—
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Cheerily.] Of course, she does; and why not, why not, dear friend?
PETER. Will you have a glass of my plum brandy?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Stiffly.] No, thank you.
As you know, I belong to the
W.C.T.U.
PETER. Pastor?
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Tolerantly.] No, thank you. I am also opposed to er—
PETER. We’re going to drink to spooks—the Doctor and I.
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [With a startled cry.] Oh! [Lifts her handkerchief to her eyes.] How can you! And at a time like this. The very idea—you of all people!
PETER. [Coming down with two glasses—handing one to the DOCTOR.] You seem greatly upset, Mrs. Batholommey. Something must have happened.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Nothing, nothing, I assure you. My wife is a trifle nervous to-day. We must all keep up our spirits, Mr. Grimm.
PETER. Of course. Why not? [Looking at MRS. BATHOLOMMEY—struck.] I know why you’re crying. You’ve been to a church wedding. [To the DOCTOR, lifting his glass.] To astral envelopes, Andrew. [They drink.
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [With sad resignation.] You were always kind to us, dear Mr. Grimm. There never was a kinder, better, sweeter man than you were.
PETER. Than I was?
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose, my dear!
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. What will become of William? [Weeps.
PETER. William? Why should you worry over
William? I am looking after him.
I don’t understand—
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Seeing that she has gone too far.] I only meant—it’s too bad he had such an M—
PETER. An M—?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [In pantomime—mouthing the word so that WILLIAM cannot hear.] Mother ... Annamarie.
PETER. Oh! ...
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. She ought to have told you
or Mr. Batholommey who the
F— was.