MRS. COTTONTAIL—Peter, can't you even be temperate in your lies?
COTTONTAIL (sinking helplessly in his chair)—My dear, I was just sitting quietly, reading The Evening Post—
MRS. COTTONTAIL—You brute! I always had a feeling you were too good to be true.
COTTONTAIL (feebly and hopelessly)—I was just sitting, reading The Evening Post (his voice trails off into nothingness. He sits motionless, huddled up in the chair. Suddenly he speaks again, but it is a new voice, strangely altered.) Mopsy, give me The Sun.
MRS. COTTONTAIL (looking at him in amazement)—What do you say?
COTTONTAIL (His muscles relax. His eyes stare stupidly. He speaks without sense or expression)—The Sun! The Sun! The Evening Sun!
(He is quite mad.)
(Curtain.)