Dr. (whilst she arranges it) There can be no objection to a simple flower. (crosses to table)
Alma. There! You look quite a masher!
Dr. Eh! (turning)
Alma. Picture, I meant! Picture, picture.
Dr. Do I, indeed? (goes to mirror, turns, and smiles) A flower is an adornment. (stands admiring himself; Alma goes up to Ned, and taps him on the shoulder, points to Dr. Dozey, and can scarcely restrain her laughter; Dr. Dozey comes down, L., soliloquising) A comely woman. Not unprepossessing. Whatever the contents may be, the exterior of the platter is attractive. (the book drops from Mrs. Dozey’s lap; turns) What was that?
Ned. (at easel) It’s only Mrs. Dozey. (crosses with Alma to R.C.)
Dr. My wife there! (crosses to Mrs. Dozey, R.)
Alma. You needn’t be alarmed. She’s fast asleep.
Dr. (picking up book) And with my sermons on her lap again. (wakes her) Diana!
Mrs. D. (waking) It’s very strange, I can’t get to sleep. (rises) You must know, Mrs. Blake, I am a victim to insomnia.