[The three younger women stand and look about the room, as if it were strange to them—­as if it were empty.  There is a moment’s silence.

BLANCHE. [Tenderly.] Mother, why don’t you take off your bonnet?

MRS. HUNTER.  Take it off for me; it will be a great relief.

BLANCHE.  Help me, Jess.

MRS. HUNTER. [Irritably.] Yes, do something, Jessie.  You’ve mortified me terribly to-day!  That child hasn’t shed a tear.  People’ll think you didn’t love your father. [The two are taking off MRS. HUNTER’S bonnet. MRS. HUNTER waits for an answer from JESSICA; none comes.] I never saw any one so heartless! [Tearful again.] And her father adored her. She was one of the things we quarrelled most about!

[Over MRS. HUNTER’S head BLANCHE exchanges a sympathetic look with JESSICA to show she understands.

CLARA.  I’m sure I’ve cried enough.  I’ve cried buckets.

[She goes to MRS. HUNTER as BLANCHE and JESSICA take away the bonnet and veil and put them on the piano.

MRS. HUNTER. [Kissing Clara.] Yes, dear, you are your mother’s own child.  And you lose the most by it, too.

[Leaning against the side of her mother’s chair, with one arm about her mother.

CLARA.  Yes, indeed, instead of coming out next month, and having a perfectly lovely winter, I’ll have to mope the whole season, and, if I don’t look out, be a wallflower without ever having been a bud!

MRS. HUNTER. [Half amused but feeling CLARA’S remark is perhaps not quite the right thing.] Sh—­

[During CLARA’S speech above, BLANCHE has taken JESSICA in her arms a moment and kissed her tenderly, slowly.  They rejoin MRS. HUNTER, BLANCHE wiping her eyes, JESSICA still tearless.

CLARA.  And think of all the clothes we brought home from Paris last month!

MRS. HUNTER.  My dear, don’t think of clothes—­think of your poor father!  That street dress of mine will dye very well, and we’ll give the rest to your aunt and cousins.

BLANCHE.  Mother, don’t you want to go upstairs?

JESSICA. [Sincerely moved.] Yes, I hate this room now.

MRS. HUNTER. [Rising.] Hate this room!  When we’ve just had it done! 
Louis Kinge!

BLANCHE.  Louis Quinze, dear!  She means the associations now, mother.

MRS. HUNTER.  Oh, yes, but that’s weak and foolish, Jessie.  No,
Blanche—­[Sitting again.]—­I’m too exhausted to move.  Ring for tea.

[BLANCHE rings the bell beside the mantel.

CLARA. [Crossing to piano, forgets and starts to play a music-hall song, but MRS. HUNTER stops her.] Oh, yes, tea!  I’m starved!

MRS. HUNTER.  Clara, darling!  As if you could be hungry at such a time!