Perkins. By-by.
Barlow. Good-night.
Yardsley. Don’t bother about fixing up to-night, Perkins. I’ll be around to-morrow evening and help put things in order again.
[They all go out. The good-nights are repeated, and finally the front door is closed.
Re-enter Perkins, who falls dejectedly on the settee, followed by Mrs. Perkins, who gives a rueful glance at the room.
Perkins. I’m glad Yardsley’s coming to fix us up again. I never could do it.
Mrs. Perkins. Then I must. I can’t ask Jennie to do it, she’d discharge us at once, and I can’t have my drawing-room left this way over Sunday.
Perkins (wearily). Oh, well, shall we do it now?
Mrs. Perkins. No, you poor dear man; we’ll stay home from church to-morrow morning and do it. It won’t be any harder work than reading the Sunday newspapers. What have you there?
Perkins (looking at two tickets he has abstracted from his vest-pocket). Tickets for Irving—this evening—Lyons Mail—third row from the stage. I was just thinking—