Dorothy. I shan’t.
Vivian. You must, Dorothy.
Maude. Oh, go ahead, Dot. She’s put us all through this before.
Dorothy (hesitatingly). Well, what is it?
Betty. Fire—liquid fire.
Beatrice. ’Twon’t hurt you, Doto.
Dorothy. Well—(puts out tongue, draws it back. Does it several times. At last Lillian succeeds in putting pepper sauce on it. Dorothy covering mouth with hands.) Whew! That burns like—
Beatrice. Water—only water, I assure you. Drawn from the northeast corner of the deepest well in Byfield.
Lillian. If the taste doesn’t appeal to you, don’t answer this august tribunal with back talk. Now for your kittychasm. Answer promptly and respectfully. What is your father?
Dorothy. A doctor.