How horrible!
Mrs. Egerton.
Harry has always been a strange, strange boy;
So different from the rest. What is it you hear?
Mrs. Orr.
Why, nothing, nothing at all. My dear, this is
Really ridiculous. If it were old
And there were cobwebs here and musty walls
And rumors had come down of some old crime
But with the timber, every stick of it
Fresh from the forest, you might almost say
Picked from your very garden, a pure bloom,
Fashioned and shaped by your own husband's hand:
How any one could fancy such a thing
Is past my comprehension.
(A medley of voices is heard, forward right)
Mrs. Egerton.
Here they come.
A Voice.