Young Mr. Bemis: “We were at a hotel in London where they called it the Ascending Room.”
Miss Lawton: “Oh, how amusing!”
Miller, looking about: “This is a regular drawing-room for size and luxury. They’re usually such cribs in these hotels.”
Mrs. Crashaw: “Yes, it’s very nice, though I say it that shouldn’t of my niece’s elevator. The worst about it is, it’s so slow.”
Miller: “Let’s hope it’s sure.”
Young Mr. Bemis: “Some of these elevators in America go up like express trains.”
Mrs. Curwen, drawing her shawl about her shoulders, as if to be ready to step out: “Well, I never get into one without taking my life in my hand, and my heart in my mouth. I suppose every one really expects an elevator to drop with them, some day, just as everybody really expects to see a ghost some time.”
Mrs. Crashaw: “Oh, my dear! what an extremely disagreeable subject of conversation.”
Mrs. Curwen: “I can’t help it, Mrs. Crashaw. When I reflect that there are two thousand elevators in Boston, and that the inspectors have just pronounced a hundred and seventy of them unsafe, I’m so desperate when I get into one that I could—flirt!”
Miller, guarding himself with the fan: “Not with me?”