PRIMROSE DEANE.
Are you ill, Mr. Cherry?
ADAM CHERRY.
(Starting.) No, my dear; no. I was only thinking. How—how do you think Nelly's looking?
PRIMROSE DEANE.
(She has brought in some flowers and is arranging them in vase.) Oh, pretty well.
ADAM CHERRY.
It—it doesn't seem to you, my dear, does it, that she's fretting herself about anything?
PRIMROSE DEANE.
(Puzzled how to answer.) Oh no; I expect she's worried about her brother, you know, Mr. Cherry, and poor Mrs. Ben Dixon.