Yardsley (aside). So am I. What the deuce are dusters, for this occasion only? (Aloud) What? Never heard of dusters? Ho! Why, dear me, where have you been all your lives? (Aside.) Must gain time to think up what dusters are. (Aloud.) Why, they’re as old as the hills.
Barlow. That may be, but I can’t say I think your description is at all definite.
Dorothy. Do they look like maples?
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—er—and 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!