General Wyatt, starting awake: "Dragon? Dragon? What dragon? I dreamt I was a perfect fiery dragon, and went about breathing flame and smoke. How long have I slept, Margaret? Where is Mr. Bartlett? Where is Constance?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, you may well ask that, James. I just met Constance at the door, in tears. Oh, I hope nothing dreadful has happened."
General Wyatt.—"Nonsense, Margaret. Here, help me up, my dear. My nap hasn't done me any good. I'm stiff all over."
Mrs. Wyatt, anxiously.—"I'm afraid you have taken cold, James."
General Wyatt, with impatience.—"Cold? No! Not in the least. I'm perfectly well. But that was a very unpleasant dream. Margaret, I'm afraid that I breathed rather—explosively, at one time."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, James, this is worse and worse. It must have mortified Constance, dreadfully."
General Wyatt, taking his wife's arm, and limping from the scene:—"Well, well! Never mind! I'll make it right with Bartlett. He's a man of sense, and will help me laugh it off with her. It will be all right, Margaret; don't worry over a trifle like that."
Mrs. Wyatt, as they disappear:—"Trifle? Her whole happiness may depend upon it." At the instant of their withdrawal, Constance and Bartlett, hastily entering by opposite doors, encounter each other in the middle of the room.