Doctor. (seeing him) My first! Quayle's right, after all. (comes to Plant teapot in hand, assumes professional air) Good afternoon, won't you sit down? (seats himself and writing table, puts teapot on blotter. He is always absent-minded when absorbed in his science)
Now! (earnestly) What can I do for you? What's the trouble, eh?
Plant. (aside) Well, upon my word, he's a cool customer. (stands R. of table)
Doctor. Come, come, let's hear what it is, or how I can help you; you know I'm in the habit of hearing confidences, (sees teapot, puts it under table)
Plant. (indignantly) Sir, I'm a father!
Doctor. (bowing) Sir, I congratulate you. (writes "Father" on note pad—to Plant cheerfully) Is it a boy or a girl?
Plant. (hotly) Two girls, sir.
Doctor. Dear, dear, I sympathize with you. (makes a note "two girls") Mother doing well?
Plant. (gesticulating wildly) The mother's dead, sir!
Doctor. (with sympathy) Ah, now I understand your agitation, (makes note) And the twins—are they well?