Fanshaw. [Interrupting.] To where he dragged them?
Johnstone. Exactly; Fletcher's no fool. And then there's Mr. Dawson. He swears by Fletcher now; they're regular pals.
Fanshaw. Ever since Mr. Wolton's death. I don't understand it.
Douglas. [Coming down left.] Yes, Dawson really believes in Fletcher—well, perhaps he's right. There must be some good in everybody, and perhaps Fletcher is just beginning to come to the top. Let's hope so.
Johnstone. Hang it, fellows, brace up anyway. This isn't a funeral, you know. Hello, there's the organ. [Organ music begins, and selections appropriate and usual on such occasions continue uninterruptedly.] The people will be coming now. [He exits.] Two other ushers make a movement, throwing off a certain lazy, nonchalant manner, and getting themselves into more dignified readiness for their duties.
Douglas. [Rises, crosses to left.] I tell you, Fanshaw, this is a hard day for me.
Fanshaw. But I'm glad you decided to come. It would have made all sorts of gossip if you hadn't.
Douglas. [Sighs.] Yes. Anyway, as it's got to be now, we must all make the best of it.
Fanshaw. No one besides me dreams your life is still wrapped up in Marion Wolton.
Douglas. [Embarrassed, but pleasantly. With a half laugh.] And I suppose that ought to be some consolation, but I don't know as it is. However, I shall never be able to thank you enough for the comfort you've been. A man must have some one to talk to. And it isn't every fellow who can have a friend like you.