There is brooding going on upon the premises.
A quick tat-tat-tat from outdoors—the clatter of someone running up the porch steps. The door opens and Doris comes in, Doris in a yellowish skirt with a knit jersey to match, Doris chewing, faintly and delicately, what can surely be no more than a sheer wisp of gum.
Doris [calling]. Char-lotte.
A Voice [broken and dismal, from up-stairs]. Is that you, Doris?
The Voice. [It’s Charlotte’s. You’d scarcely have recognized it.] I’ll come down.
Doris. Heard anything from Jerry?
Charlotte. Not a word.
Doris regards herself silently, but with interest, in a small mirror on the wall. In comes Charlotte—and oh, how changed from herself of last week. Her nose and eyes are red from weeping. She’s chastened and depressed.
Doris [with cheerful pessimism]. Haven’t heard a word, eh?