[She sweeps off the snow from the seat of the swing with her hand.

TROTTER.  Your mother certainly did represent—­

CLARA. [Sitting in the swing.] Oh, well, now don’t blame mama!  She couldn’t help herself; she always thought you dreadfully handsome!  Swing me!

TROTTER.  I don’t care, anyway.  I’m deucedly proud of your mother,—­I mean of my wife,—­and I’d just as lief throw up the whole society business and go off and live happily by ourselves.

CLARA.  O dear!  I think mama would find that awfully dull.  Go on, swing me! [TROTTER swings her.] Of course, you’ll find mama a little different when you see her all the time.  You really won’t see much more of her, though, than you do now.  She doesn’t get up till noon, and has her masseuse for an hour every morning, her manicure and her mental science visitor every other day, and her face steamed three times a week!  She has to lie down a lot, too, but you mustn’t mind that; you must remember she isn’t our age!

TROTTER. [Swings her.] She suits me!

CLARA.  That’s just what I feel!  You’ll take care of her, and me, too, all our lives, and that’s what makes me so happy.  I’m full of plans!  We’ll go abroad soon and stay two years. [He has stopped swinging her.] Go on, swing me!

TROTTER. [Holding the swing still.] Say! if you think you are going to run me and the whole family, you’re a Dodo bird!  Remember that you’re my daughter; you must wait a little if you want to be a mother-in-law.

[Sleigh-bells are heard in the distance, coming nearer.

CLARA.  Good gracious!  If you ask me, I think mama has got her hands full.  What’s become of Miss Godesby and her brother?

TROTTER.  When you went upstairs with your mother, they went down the road.

CLARA.  You know originally the idea was I was to marry you.

TROTTER.  Really—­

CLARA. [Laughingly.] Yes, and mama cut me out.

TROTTER.  Oh, well, it can’t be helped; we can’t marry everybody.

CLARA. [Noticing the bells.] Somebody else arriving! That’s queer—­nobody comes here in the winter; that’s why we chose it, because it would be quiet!  Let’s play this game.

[Going to an iron frog on a box which stands near the house.

TROTTER.  Perhaps it’s Mrs. Sterling.

CLARA.  No; if she was coming at all, she’d have come in time for the wedding. [She takes up the disks which lie beside the frog.] I should hate to get married like you and mama—­no splurge and no presents!  Why, the presents’d be half the fun!  And think of all those you and she’ve given in your life, and have lost now a good chance of getting back.

[Throws a disk into the frog’s open mouth.

TROTTER. I’ll give your mother all the presents she wants.  I can afford it; I don’t want anybody to give us anything!