Dawson. A what?
Servant. A children's party, sir.
Dawson. Who are the children?
Servant. Mr. Wolton and Miss Wolton, sir, and her friends. Mr. Wolton's playing games now, sir, but he said he would join you in a minute.
Dawson. [Out loud, involuntarily, but speaking to himself—very seriously, almost tragically.] Playing games! My God!
Servant. Yes, sir—one don't know what rich folks'll do next, sir. We're in hopes, in the kitchen, they'll take to pretending they're the servants, sir, and turn us loose in the ball-room. [Smiling. Exits.
Dawson. [Who hardly hears Servant.] Playing games, with ruin and disgrace staring him in the face. [Enter Mr. Wolton.
Mr. Wolton. [Flushed and gay—an elderly man in knickerbockers and evening coat, a sort of English Court costume. The handkerchief, which was tied around his eyes in the game, has slipped, and lies about his neck.] Well, Fred, what's the good news?
Dawson. The worst there could be!
Mr. Wolton. [Half whispers.] What do you mean!!