Kitty. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’ve cut my finger with those plaguey taters.
March. Dear me, Kitty! you are always in trouble.
Kitty. Well, I couldn’t help it. My hands were never made to peel taters.
March. No, indeed, they wa’nt. Here, let me fix it for you (wraps cloth round it). You shan’t do it again. Fortune has at last smiled upon me: I shall soon be rich, and then—
Kitty. How long must we wait?
Mrs. Gale. How long must I wait for the pertaters?
Kitty. Oh, dear! I wish they were in the sea (goes to door, C.). O March, look here, quick! There’s a yacht coming round the point. Isn’t she a beauty?
March. My eyes! look at her! A gentleman’s yacht, and headed this way.
Mrs. Gale. Mercy sakes! More visitors. Who can it be? (All exit, C. Enter Raymond, R.)