You don’t say so! What can that be, Miss?
Miss Tesman.
[Smiling.] H’m—wouldn’t you like to know! [With emotion.] Ah, dear dear—if my poor brother could only look up from his grave now, and see what his little boy has grown into! [Looks around.] But bless me, Berta—why have you done this? Taken the chintz covers off all the furniture?
Berta.
The mistress told me to. She can’t abide covers on the chairs, she says.
Miss Tesman.
Are they going to make this their everyday sitting-room then?
Berta.
Yes, that’s what I understood—from the mistress. Master George—the doctor—he said nothing.
George Tesman comes from the right into the inner room, humming to himself, and carrying an unstrapped empty portmanteau. He is a middle-sized, young-looking man of thirty-three, rather stout, with a round, open, cheerful face, fair hair and beard. He wears spectacles, and is somewhat carelessly dressed in comfortable indoor clothes.