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.