MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor!
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [With solicitude.] I greatly grieve to hear that Mr. Grimm has an incurable malady. His heart, I understand. [Shakes his head.
DR. MACPHERSON. He's not to be told. Is that clear? He may die in twenty minutes—may outlive us all—probably will.
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Pointing to REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY.] It seems to me, Doctor, that if you can't do any more, it's his turn. It's a wonder you Doctors don't baptize the babies.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose!
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. At the last minute, he'll want to make a will—and you know he hasn't made one. He'll want to remember the church and his charities and his friends; and if he dies before he can carry out his intentions, the minister will be blamed as usual. It's not fair.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Sh! Sh! My dear! These private matters—
DR. MACPHERSON. I'll trouble you, Mistress Batholommey, to attend to your own affairs. Did you never hear the story of the lady who flattened her nose—sticking it into other people's business?
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor! Doctor! I can't have that!
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Let him talk, Henry. No one in this town pays any attention to Dr. MacPherson since he took up with spiritualism.