Yardsley (looking over Dorothy's other shoulder). Yes, very pretty, and lots of style. (Softly.) Very—like some one—some one I know.
Barlow (overhearing). I think so myself, Yardsley. It's exactly like Josie Wilkins. By-the-way—ah—how is that little affair coming along, Bob?
Dorothy (interested). What! You don't mean to say—Why, Mister Yardsley!
Yardsley (with a venomous glance at Barlow). Nonsense. Nothing in it. Mere invention of Barlow's. He's a regular Edison in his own way.
[Dorothy looks inquiringly at Barlow.
Barlow (to Yardsley). Oh, don't be so sly about it, old fellow! Everybody knows.
Yardsley. But I tell you there's nothing in it. I—I have different ideas entirely, and you—you know it—or, if you don't, you will shortly.
Dorothy. Oh! Then it's some one else, Mr. Yardsley? Well, now I am interested. Let's have a little confidential talk together. Tell us, Mr. Yardsley, tell Mr. Barlow and me, and maybe—I can't say for certain, of course—but maybe we can help you.
Barlow (gleefully rubbing his hands). Yes, old man; certainly. Maybe we—we can help you.
Yardsley (desperately). You can help me, both of you—but—but I can't very well tell you how.