REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose! [He motions to her to be silent, as PETER, coming up the stairs from the cellar, is heard singing.
PETER. "Drop in the fat some apples red,
(Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)
Then spread it on a piece of bread,
(Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)"
[He opens the door, carrying a big bottle in his hand; hailing the BATHOLOMMEYS cheerfully.] Good-morning, good people. [He puts the jug on the sideboard and hangs up the key. The BATHOLOMMEYS look sadly at PETER. MRS. BATHOLOMMEY in the fore-ground tries to smile pleasantly, but can only assume the peculiarly pained expression of a person about to break terrible news.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Rising to the occasion—warmly grasping PETER'S hand.] Ah, my dear friend! Many thanks for the flowers William brought us, and the noble cheque you sent me. We're still enjoying the vegetables you generously provided. I did relish the squash.
PETER. [Catching a glimpse of MRS. BATHOLOMMEY'S gloomy expression.]
Anything distressing you this morning, Mrs. Batholommey?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. No, no…. I hope you're feeling well—er—I don't mean that—I—
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [Cheerily.] Of course, she does; and why not, why not, dear friend?
PETER. Will you have a glass of my plum brandy?
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Stiffly.] No, thank you. As you know, I belong to the
W.C.T.U.
PETER. Pastor?