Barlow. What’s the matter with you, Yardsley? Are you going to die of fright, or have you suddenly caught a chill?
Dorothy. Oh, I hope not! Don’t die here, anyhow, Mr. Yardsley. If you must die, please go home and die. I couldn’t stand another shock to-day. Why, really, I was nearly frightened to death. I don’t know now but what I ought to send for the police, Hicks was so violent.
Barlow. Perhaps she and Hicks have had a lovers’ quarrel.
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.