Mrs. S. Oh, Bob! you dear old—goodness me. (Staggers to sofa and buries her face in the cushions.)
Bob. (Alarmed.) Why, she is sick! Alice, what ails her?—why didn’t you telephone for me?
Mrs. S. (In changed voice.) Bob, you’re a trump!
Bob. Oh, she’s out of her head!
Alice. (Reading.) I guess not.
Bob. I say she is very sick. (Feels his wife’s pulse.) She’s in a fever! How long has she been taken? (Petulantly.) Why do you sit there so unconcernedly. Puss—Puss. When was she taken?
Alice. (Reading.) Oh, I found her that way when I came in. She said she wasn’t sick.
Bob. But don’t you see she is sick? Can’t you do something?
Alice. (Reading.) Do something yourself. She’s your wife.
Bob. Heartless creature! put that book away. (Snatches book away from A., and flings it out L.)