Mrs. Ritter. [Laying the glass of water down on the table] Oh, what does it matter, Nelly, what he’s been saying!
Mrs. Fell. [Turning sharply to Mrs. Ritter] What?
Mrs. Ritter. [Trying not to cry] I say—I say [She bursts into tears.] I say what does it matter what he’s been saying!
Mrs. Fell. It doesn’t matter in the least, as far as I’m concerned—[Mrs. Pampinelli turns at the center-door and comes forward slowly in the middle of the room.] there’s only one thing he could say, if he told the truth.
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Laying her hand on Mrs. Fell’s left arm] Eleanor, dear child,—husbands are not always particular about telling the truth—where the abilities of their wives are concerned. If I had listened to the promptings of my own soul, instead of to my husband, when I was a younger woman, I should in all probability be one of the leading figures in the American Theatre today. But I was fool enough, like a lot of other women, to believe that my husband had my welfare at heart,—when the fact of the matter was, as I see it now, when it’s too late,—he was simply jealous of my artistic promise. [The cuckoo-clock strikes the midnight hour. Ritter turns and looks up at it, then glances at Mrs. Pampinelli. She is looking up at the clock distrustfully. Mrs. Fell raises her eyes discreetly to it, then drops them to the floor.] Why, the night I played Hazel Kirke, I had my best friends in tears: yet, when I returned from the hall, and the entire town of Cohoes ringing with my name,—my husband had the effrontery to tell me that I was so terrific he was obliged to leave the hall before the end of the first act. So,—[She turns to Mrs. Ritter.] if this gentleman here has set himself up as your critic, Paula,—remember my story,—the actress without honor in her own house. [She sweeps across below the piano to the window.] Is my car out here, Nelly?
Mrs. Fell. [Moving over a bit towards Mrs. Ritter] Yes, it’s there. I told Matthew he needn’t bother coming back for me, that you’d take me home. [Mrs. Ritter begins to cry softly, and Mrs. Fell steps to her left and puts her hand on her shoulder.] Don’t do that, Paula. [She turns sharply and goes towards Ritter.] What was the matter with that performance, Frederick Ritter?
Ritter. [Over at the left, below the mantelpiece] Why, they didn’t even know their lines!
Mrs. Ritter. [Straightening up abruptly and looking at him, reproachfully] Oh!
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Turning sharply from the window] That is a falsehood! They ran over every line last night, right here in this room,—and they knew—practically all of them.
Ritter. What good was that, if they couldn’t remember them on the stage.