Dor. Polly, if you can talk sensibly, pray do, and not as if your brain were congested.
Polly. Indeed, Miss Dorothy, my brain is all right—but look (mysteriously) behind that portière.
Dor. What is it? You make my very blood run cold.
Polly. Behind that portière (goes to it, draws it aside, disclosing Roger), is—is—
Dor. Roger! (Rushes into his arms.)
Roger. My own dear Dorothy.
Dor. Oh, Polly, you frightened me so.
Polly. Thank heaven, that's over—it's worse than having a tooth pulled.
Roger. You did nobly, Polly. Will you tell Mrs. Graham that I am here?
Polly. Indeed I will. (Exit Polly, L.)