The REV. HENRY BATHOLOMMEY now enters. He is a man of about forty-five, wearing the frock coat, high waistcoat and square topped hat of a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Hy're, Henry?
The REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY bows. WILLIAM has returned from his errand and entered the room,—a picture-book under his arm. He sits up by the window, absorbed in the pictures—unnoticed by the others.
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Closing the door left open by PETER, shutting out the sound of his voice.] Well, Doctor … [She pauses for a moment to catch her breath and wipe her eyes.] I suppose you've told him he's got to die.
DR. MACPHERSON. [Eyeing MRS. BATHOLOMMEY with disfavour.] Who's got to die?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Why, Mr. Grimm, of course.
DR. MACPHERSON. [Amazed.] Does the whole damned town know it?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Oh!
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Easy, Doctor. You consulted Mr. Grimm's lawyer and his wife told my wife.
DR. MACPHERSON. He gabbed, eh? Hang the professional man who tells things to his wife.