Mrs. T. Yes, Hilda. For weeks she has not been herself. I know that she has something on her mind, but I can't find out what it is. Her father is no help——(Sound of door-bell.) I'm sure that's the evening paper; will you kindly get it, Sue? (Exit Sue, r. Mrs. T. rises hurriedly and goes to desk.) Horace. (Pause.) Horace!
Mr. T. (without looking up). Yes, yes.
Mrs. T. (in exasperation). Will you give me your attention one moment?
Mr. T. (impatiently pushing aside his work). Celia, how many times must I tell you that I'm preparing an article for the press, entitled, "The Philosophy of our Forefathers as Revealed by their Kitchen Utensils," and that I cannot endure this constant interruption? (Resumes work.)
Mrs. T. You shall listen to me. Do you ever wonder at the increasing frequency with which Professor Gates calls here?
Mr. T. (impatiently). Well, Gates is a good fellow—fine family—most distinguished—that sort of thing.
Mrs. T. Very true, and moreover, he is in love with Hilda.
Mr. T. Nonsense! He's twice her age.
Mrs. T. That doesn't matter. Hilda is old for her years; besides, she's in love with him.
Mr. T. You must be mistaken.