March. I told you so,—I told you so! It’s coming.
Kitty. He’s discovered him here.
March. Yes, yes.
Kitty. And who do you suppose it is?
March. Suppose? I know, Kitty. Can I smother the paternal instinct in my bosom? It is—it is—
Kitty. Our Sept.
March. O Lord! there’s another black eye for me. (Tumbles against table, knocking it over.)
Mrs. Gale. Heavens and airth! All my best chiny! (Grand crash of crockery and quick curtain.)