Tom.
Don't heed it! [To Arthur.] Go on, Mr. Gordon.
Arthur.
"Somebody singing. A girl's voice. Lord Parracourt made no mention of anybody but his hostess—the dry, Scotch widow. [Picking up the ball of wool.] This is Lady McArchie's, I'll be bound. The very color suggests spectacles and iron-gray curls——"
Tom.
Dora returns. [Calling.] Dora!
O'Dwyer.
Dora! where are ye?
The Gentleman.
[Going to the Green-room door.]Dora! Dora!