Gladys. (stepping down from chair). Yes, and I might put my foot in her blue and gold coffee cup, and she would disapprove still more.
(Exit Marie with tray.)
(Enter Mrs. Worthington.)
Mrs. W. (languidly). Good morning, Gladys.
Gladys. (cheerfully). Good morning, mother. Just in time to open Aunt Louisa’s Christmas box.
(Mrs. W. seats herself and takes up bottle of smelling salts.)
Mrs. W. (listlessly). I really am not interested especially in your Aunt Louisa’s box. It is past my comprehension why when she is a woman of such plain, not to say plebeian taste, she and your uncle should enjoy a comfortable income, when we are obliged to strive so hard to keep up the appearance which our social position demands.
Gladys. (calling). Marie! Bring a screwdriver or a nail file or something and we’ll open the box. Well, mother, maybe Aunt Louisa economizes more than we do, but my definition is that economy is spending your money in such a manner that you don’t get any pleasure out of it.
(Enter Marie.)
Gladys. Thank you, Marie. Now let’s open the box. (Both try to pry up lid, and finally are successful.)