John.
Oh, my dear, you’re not going to ask me to get up in the middle of the night? After all, one of the pleasures of coming home is to lie in bed in the morning. I don’t know how I ever tear myself out of those lavender-scented sheets.
Mrs. Wharton.
Dear John, won’t you come to please us?
John.
[Still trying to pass it off lightly.] Oh, my dear mother, d’you think it’s really necessary?
Mrs. Wharton.
I should like it so much, my dear. You know, it means a great deal to us.
John.
[More gravely.] Don’t you think one should go to a ceremony like that in a certain frame of mind?