Mrs. Lang.—To poor dear Alma Townsend. I quite agree with you. I should like to know how she feels—if she understands what it means.
Mrs. Lister.—Well, if I were in her place—
Enter Mrs. Dexter Townsend.
| Mrs. Lang. Mrs. Lister. | } | Why, Alma! |
Mrs. Townsend.—Why, Ellen! Why, Mary! Oh, I’m so glad to meet you both. I want you to lunch with me to-morrow at one o’clock. I do so hate to be left alone. And poor Rhodora Pennington—Mrs. Boyd, I mean—her funeral is at noon, and our three male protectors will have to go to the cemetery, and Mr. Townsend is just going to take a cold bite before he goes, and so I’m left to lunch—
Mrs. Lang (coldly).—I don’t think Mr. Lang will go to the cemetery—
Mrs. Lister.—There is no reason why Mr. Lister—
Mrs. Townsend.—But, don’t you know?—They’re all to be pall-bearers! They can’t refuse, of course.
Mrs. Lang (icily).—Oh, no, certainly not.
Mrs. Lister (below zero).—I suppose it is an unavoidable duty.