Ethel. Why are they so low? (Fingers goods). Is there any imperfection?
Newcome (ecstatically). None in the world, madam—none in the world. They are just an importer's surplus stock that our buyer got at a tremendous reduction, and we are selling them at this absurd price merely to get rid of them before taking stock.
Maud (eying the goods behind the counter on shelves). Ethel, that gray is too sweet for anything; it would just match your chinchilla furs perfectly!
Ethel. So it would!
Newcome (tossing aside the blues with a jubilant air). Gray, did you say, madam? We have a line of grays not to be found anywhere else in the city; every possible tint and tone. Is it for yourself, madam?
[Gazing at Ethel as he moves heavy pile of grays from shelf to counter.
Ethel. Oh no; we are, as I told you, merely looking (glances at Maud) for a friend.
[Chorus of clerics, softly and with a semi-sarcastic, semi-melancholic demeanor, advance and sing:
They are looking for a friend,
Who is ill, and cannot spend
Any strength, but must depend
On their offices, and send
For some samples that may tend
To assist her health to mend.
So their time they gladly lend
To so laudable an end
As is "looking for a friend."
[Chorus retire and again busy themselves with other customers.