Mrs. Pampinelli. He is one of those rare persons who never forsakes one in the hour of quotation. [She turns to Mrs. Ritter, who is chewing fudge at her right.] What are you eating, Paula?
Mrs. Ritter. A bit of fudge. Would you like some, Betty?
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Very definitely] No, thank you, dear.
Mrs. Ritter. [Indicating the table below the casement-window] There’s some here.
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Raising her hand in a gesture of finality, and speaking with conviction] I never eat immediately before using my voice. And you should not, either, Paula,—particularly candy. [She moves across to the left to Mr. Ritter. She is an imposing woman, in her late fifties, with a wealth of false hair, perfectly done, and a martial bearing. She is one of those matrons who is frequently referred to in the suburban weeklies as a “leading spirit”; and this particular description has always so flattered Mrs. Pampinelli’s particular vanity, that she overlooks no opportunity of justifying it: an effort that has resulted in a certain grandeur of voice and manner; which, rather fortunately, becomes the distinction of her person. She is gowned in sapphire-blue velvet, close-fitting, with an independent, triangular train, from the waist, probably four yards long. Her necklace, comb, the buckles on her black-velvet slippers, and her rings, are all touched with sapphire.]
Mrs. Ritter. [Looking vaguely at the fudge-box] There’s so much of it here. [Jenny appears from the left hallway.]
Mrs. P. and Mrs. R., speaking together.
Mrs. P. [Coming to Ritter’s right] Very tragic about poor Sheppard, wasn’t it, Mr. Ritter?
Mrs. R. [Going up to the center-door, and speaking to Jenny as she goes] Mr. Spindler is answering the door, Jenny, you needn’t bother.
Ritter and Jenny, speaking together.