"You might go to a moving-picture show."
"What's that?"
"It's—it's a kind of theater."
"Well, I ain't never seen one," said Drusilla; and turned to the old ladies, who were waiting patiently to learn of their final disposal. "Do you want to go to a movin'-picture show?"
"What's that?" came in chorus.
"I don't know myself, but it's a sort of—sort of—"
"Never mind what it is, we want to go."
"Yes, let's go, Drusilla; let's not go home."
And the patrons of the moving-picture house had a view of six old ladies, piloted by a smartly dressed chauffeur, who saw them seated in a box and then left them. It was really a very good moving-picture, and if the actors could have seen the delight of the box party they would have felt they had not toiled in vain. They sat for two hours entranced by the scenes that passed before them on the screen. One of the plays was a war-time drama, and the old ladies were quite likely the only ones in the house to whom the blue and the gray brought memories.
At the end of the reel, Drusilla decided that they should be leaving, as supper would be ready at the home. One of the old ladies objected.