Yardsley (with an angry wave of his arms towards Jennie). Something—in fact, very much. They're exactly like them. You can hardly tell them from oaks.
Barlow. Oaks?
Yardsley. I said oaks. Oaks! O-A-K-S!
Barlow. But oaks aren't like maples.
Yardsley. Well, who said they were? We were talking about oaks—and—erand dusters. We—er—we used to have a row of them in front of our old house at—(Aside.) Now where the deuce did we have the old house? Never had one, but we must for the sake of the present situation. (Aloud.) Up at—at—Bryn-Mawr—or at—Troy, or some such place, and—at—they kept the—the dust of the highway from getting into the house. (With a sigh of relief.) And so, you see, they were called dusters. Thought every one knew that.
[As Yardsley finishes, Jennie loses her balance and falls headlong into the room.
Dorothy (starting up hastily). Why, Jennie!
Yardsley (staggering into chair). That settles it. It's all up with me.
[Jennie sobs, and, rising, rushes to Yardsley's side.