Jennie. Oh, excuse me, mum. I didn't hear straight.
[She casts a languishing glance at Yardsley and disappears.
Yardsley (noting the glance, presumably aside). Confound that Jennie!
Barlow (overhearing Yardsley). What's that? Confound that Jennie? Why say confound that Jennie? Why do you wish Jennie to be confounded?
Yardsley (nervously). I didn't say that. I—ah—I merely said that—that Jennie appeared to be—ah—confounded.
Dorothy. She certainly is confused. I cannot understand it at all. Ordinarily I have rather envied Jennie her composure.
Yardsley. Oh, I suppose—it's—it's—it's natural for a young girl—a servant—sometimes to lose her—equipoise, as it were, on occasions. If we lose ours at times, why not Jennie? Eh? Huh?
Barlow. Certainly.
Yardsley. Of course—ha—trained servants are hard to get these days, anyhow. Educated people—ah—go into other professions, such as law, and—ah—the ministry—and—
Dorothy. Well, never mind. Let's talk of something more interesting than Jennie. Going to the Chrysanthemum Show, Mr. Barlow?