Ritter. You look like a Dutch squaw. [She bursts into tears again.]
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Hastening over to her] Let her alone! Don’t mind him, Paula.
Ritter. She’s all made up! and it’s coming off.
Mrs. Pampinelli. Well, what if it is?
Ritter. [Settling back into the arm-chair] I don’t want to be reminded of that show. [Jenny enters hurriedly from the door at the left.]
Mrs. Pampinelli. Mrs. Ritter is ill, Jenny. [Jenny comes quickly across, above the table at the left.]
Mrs. Ritter. [Half turning to her] My smelling-salts, Jenny.
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Standing back of Mrs. Ritter] Her smelling-salts, dear.
Jenny. [Hurrying out through the center-door] Yes, mam.
Mrs. Ritter. They’re in my bureau-basket.