Dorothy. No, I don’t.
Florence. Then please tell this assembly exactly how and where she does live.
Dorothy. She doesn’t. Both my grandmothers died years ago. One before I was born. The other immediately after.
Florence. Oh, Dot, were you as homely as that? She killed her own grandmothers. I’ve no more to ask. Proceed with the inquisition, Miss Mortimer, while I recover from the effects of the shock. A pickle, please.
Beatrice. No; no pickles yet. The smelling salts are—somewhere. (To Dorothy.) When and where were you born?
Dorothy. In Boston, May 1, ——. (Insert date to fit age of girl taking the part.)
Beatrice. What day of the week?
Dorothy. Sunday.
Beatrice. Ladies, she’s a Sabbath breaker. Very poor taste, to say the least, to work the stork express on Sunday. The hour of the day?
Dorothy. Really, I don’t know. Does it matter?