(Front door bell rings.)
Flora. (jumping up suddenly from her knees) Who's that? Another lady afflicted with all sorts of longings?
Doctor. (seriously, rubbing his hands) I hope so—devoutly, (rises suddenly) By George! If it's auntie!1 She mustn't find you here.
Flora. (running about aimlessly) Where shall I go? (crosses L., runs towards bathroom R. U. E)
Doctor. (stopping her) Not in my bedroom!
Flora. Why not? I'm your wife!
Doctor. Oh, yes, I forgot. But aunt may want to take her things off, and if she found you there, the whole story'd have to come out, and she might think it was a fairy tale, and that would be awful! I know—on my operating couch.
Flora. (shrieks) Ach! Operating!
(Runs down O. P.., crosses R. corner and then round table C., followed by Doctor.)
Doctor. It's all right! It won't bite you! (takes up rug) I'll chuck this rug over you. She'll think it's something anatomical. She'll never suspect it's my blushing bride.