Oh, Bessie, will you hunt up my gloves? (Pause.) No, I haven’t the least idea where they are. Look in that drawer. (Pause.) Not there? Then look in the writing—Oh, I remember, I left them over to Edith’s. I simply can’t go to church without them, so run and get them. Hurry, I’m late now.
(Calls) Jimmie, aren’t those shoes done yet? Mother, do make him hurry. I’ll nev—
I suppose I might be putting on my hat while I’m waiting. (Puts it on carefully.) Mother, which way do you like it best? This way, (Jerks it to the left.) or this? (Jerks it to the right.) You like it best on straight? But mother, it must have a dip or it won’t be in style. There, (Jerks to the left and examines critically.) I like it that way best. The way that curl pokes out is too cute for—Where’s my fancy hat-pins gone? You can’t keep anything around this place. I’ll have to take Bessie’s.
(Calls.) Oh, Jim—mie, do get a move on! (Severely.) Don’t get into such a temper. How did I know you were coming.
Goodness, but that’s some shine you’ve got. (Puts them on.)
You’d think—oh, oh, look at my hands; they’re all over shoe polish. I’ll have to wash them again.
I’ll never, never get to church.
(Indignantly) Jimmy Smith, the idea of saying it’s my own fault. I couldn’t waken if nobody called me, could I? You ought to be so thankful that you have a sister who’s anxious to go to church that you’d do anything to help her get ready.
Has any one found my hymn-book yet? Never mind, I’ll get one at the door as I go—