[clasping John's arm]
Yes, Uncle Everett, marriages are made in heaven.
Judge
I see; quite so; but your Aunt Julia and I were joined together by a pink parasol made in Paris.
John
What rot! Stop your fooling and speak the truth, man.
Judge
Just what I'm doing—that's why you think I'm fooling. A very pretty parasol—but it wasn't made in heaven. You see, God made poor, dear Julia pale, but on that fatal day, twenty-five years ago, the pink parasol, not God, made her rosy and irresistible. I did the rest—with the aid of a clergyman, whom I tipped even more liberally than the waiter who served us tutti-frutti. Blame me for it, blame her, the parasol, the parson, but do not, my dear Theodore, blame the Deity for our own mistakes. It's so blasphemous.
[A pause. Lucy takes place at the tea-table to serve tea.
Lucy