Mrs. Thorne. When you went up to light the Doctor’s candles, how did Laddie seem? Did Molly say?
Maggie. Just the same, she said. He does seem sort of miser’ble.
[Exit Maggie.
Mrs. Thorne. (takes up a magazine and tries, in vain, to read; sighs, and lays it down; takes up the little lace collar and tries to sew; lays that down; rises). I’ll run up again and look at the child for myself.
Enter Maggie.
Maggie. Mrs. Fayth, ma’am.
Enter Mrs. Fayth (pale, sweet-faced, delicate, with the languorous step of the half-cured invalid. She is in carriage dress, with a long, dove-colored opera cape—rich, but plain in design. She throws off the cape at once).
[Exit Maggie.
Mrs. Thorne (warmly embracing her friend). Why, Mary Fayth! You? At this time of night!
Mrs. Fayth. Yes. I—Mary Fayth—isn’t it wonderful? I haven’t been out after sundown before for six years.... Is the Doctor in?