Yardsley. Very likely; very likely, indeed. I think that is no doubt the explanation of the whole trouble. Lovers will quarrel. They were engaged, you know.
Dorothy (surprised). No, I didn't know it. Were they? Who told you?
Yardsley (discovering his mistake). Why—er—wasn't it you said so, Miss Dorothy? Or you, Barlow?
Barlow. I have not the honor of the young woman's confidence, and so could not have given you the information.
Dorothy. I didn't know it, so how could I have told you?
Yardsley (desperately). Then I must have dreamed it. I do have the queerest dreams sometimes, but there's nothing strange about this one, anyhow. Parlor-maids frequently do—er—become engaged to coachmen and butlers and that sort of thing. It isn't a rare occurrence at all. If I'd said she was engaged to Billie Wilkins, or to—to Barlow here—
Barlow. Or to yourself.
Yardsley. Sir? What do you mean to insinuate? That I am engaged to Jennie?
Barlow. I never said so.
Dorothy. Oh, dear, let us have the tea. You quarrelsome men are just wearing me out. Mr. Barlow, do you want cream in yours?