Jenny. [Taking the violets] Yes, mam. [Mrs. Pampinelli enters at the left door, with a glass of water.]
Mrs. Fell. I’m afraid they’ll be all withered. [Jenny continues on into the left hallway. Mrs. Fell turns around into the room again.] Where’s Mrs. P.? [Sees Mrs. Pampinelli] Oh, there you are! I was just wondering where you were.
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Crossing above the table at the left, towards Mrs. Ritter] Did you get the smelling-salts, Jenny?
Jenny. Yes, mam, I gave them to Mrs. Ritter. [She goes out at the left hallway.]
Mrs. Ritter. Yes, Betty, I have them.
Mrs. Fell. [Coming a step or two forward] Well, Betty, you see we managed to get them all here.
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Back of the table below the piano, and at Mrs. Ritter’s left] Here, try and drink this, Paula. [Mrs. Ritter takes the water and tries to drink it; and Mrs. Pampinelli leans solicitously over her. There is a pause.]
Mrs. Fell. [Coming anxiously down at Mrs. Ritter’s left] What’s the matter?—[She looks at Mrs. Pampinelli.] Is Paula sick?
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Straightening up, and very imperiously] The critic—has been giving his impressions of our play.
Mrs. Fell. Who? [She turns towards Ritter.] This critic here, you mean? [She indicates Ritter and then looks at Mrs. Pampinelli. Mrs. Pampinelli inclines her head, with the suggestion of a derisive smile, and passes up to the center-door. Mrs. Fell crosses quickly towards Ritter.] What have you been saying, Frederick Ritter?—Huh?