Mrs. F. How is that?
M. I think of inviting him to go away on a visit.
Mrs. F. I don’t believe he will go. He has an idea that he’s very sick; but, for my part, I think it’s because he wants to make himself a nuisance.
M. Hush, Mrs. Foster! You forget he is my uncle, and therefore entitled to my respect and attention.
Mrs. F. Well, I don’t see how you can stand it. I’d as soon wait on the old boy himself.
M. (smiling). I hope you don’t compare my uncle to that renowned personage?
Mrs. F. Well, I don’t know which I’d rather wait on. He’s the most contrary man I ever knew. (A knock is heard on the floor outside, R.)
M. Hark! (In listening attitude, and with uplifted finger. Knock repeated.) There’s my uncle’s knock. He’s awake and wants me.
(Exit, R.)
Mrs. F. It’s a wicked shame for him to make such a slave of her. He’s a real torment. (Knits vigorously—starts as if suddenly remembering.) But there, I promised to go over and sit with old Miss Barnard this afternoon. I guess I’ll go, and take my knitting.