Mrs. Felton.—Pardon me, but—
Miss Philp.—Silence! I am talking.
Mercy (Aside).—Shame upon you, you spitfire!
Em’ly (Putting on dress).—I am sure we can fix it in time for this evening.
Mercy (Assisting Em’ly).—How well you become fine clothes; you were intended to be a lady. Just see what a graceful figure.
Miss Philp.—Ridiculous; the idea! Why the girl looks like a jointed doll.
Mrs. Felton.—Em’ly, dear, hold still.
Em’ly (Raises dress to her eyes).—Mother—
Miss Philp.—Here, don’t wipe your eyes on that dress, if you please.
Em’ly.—Mother, I do not think it womanly in Miss Philp to thus take advantage of our reverse in fortune.