LAURA. Well, now, couldn't we call him?
MRS. R. I daresay. He won't like it.
LAURA. He must. He belongs to us.
MRS. R. Yes, I suppose—as I wouldn't divorce him, though he wanted me to.
I said marriages were made in Heaven.
A VOICE. Luckily, they don't last there.
(Greatly startled, they look around, and perceive presently in the mirror over the mantelpiece the apparition of a figure which they seem dimly to recognise. A tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary type, with long side-whiskers, and dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, has taken up his position to one side of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass in eye, with folded arms resting on the mantel-slab and a stylish hat in one hand, be gazes upon the assembled family with quizzical benevolence.)
MRS. R. (placidly). What, is that you, Thomas?
THOMAS (with the fashionable lisp of the fifties, always substituting 'th' for 's'). How do you do, Susan?
(There follows a pause, broken courageously by Mrs. James.)
LAURA. Are you my Father?