[Rigby makes as if to speak; but restrains himself, and, with a look of quiet scorn, serves them hot lemon punch. Penrose is by the fire. Marsh by the window.
MARSH.
It promises to be a chilly eve after a cloudy morning.
PENROSE
(with a shiver).
More snow and bitter weather!
MARSH
(looking out the window).
Nay, not so bitter. The window-panes are clear and unfrosted. The twilight gathers quickly. The streets are gray, and there's scarce a gleam in the darkness of the harbor.
PENROSE
(as Marsh leaves window for fire).
Not e'en a light in the rigging o' Francis Rotch's ships? The sailors must be supping at the taverns. They're weary now of staying harborbound. There'll be rejoicing when the tax is paid, and the stiff-necked Yankees bring the tea to land.
MARSH.