Mamma P. I have sent for him. [Sighs, rises and comes forward, taking chair] [R] But what can he do? Someway it doesn't seem as if he could help. He's such a small man.
GRANDMA P. Size doesn't matter if one has brains. It's brains that count, my dear. Napoleon was small, but he will live forever. And look at Alexander Pope. [Waves hand]
Aunt F. [Runs to window] What! Where is he? Whom did you say to look at?
Grandma P. [Witheringly] Alexander Pope, who has been dead one hundred and fifty years.
Aunt F. [Simpering] Oh, I thought you said to look at somebody going by.
Grandma P. I said "Look at Alexander Pope," by which I meant "Consider Alexander Pope"—a small man, not ever growing to be much larger than a child. But what a poet! Brains, my dear, brains. In my day it was brains that decided a person's value. Sometimes I think they have gone out of fashion.
Mamma P. But they will come in again, mother. All the old fashions come round in about so many years, they say.
Grandma P. [Who has returned to her knitting] Perhaps the time has come then for brains, for every one speaks so highly of Dr. Hardhack.
Enter Maid
Mary. Dr. Hardhack, madam.