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Helen—What time is it?

(The sewing machine stops in the room at the left.)

Voice—I haven’t a watch, Miss Helen.

Helen—(Assuming expression number three and singing to the mirror) “Poor butterfly—by the blossoms waiting—poor butter——” What time do you think it is, Narry, old lady? Where’s Mother, Narry?

Narry—(Rather crossly) I am sure I haven’t the slightest idea.

Helen—Narry! (No answer.) Narry, I called you “old lady,” because—(She pauses. The sewing machine swings into an emphatic march.) Because it’s the last chance I will have.

The machine stops again and Narry comes into the room sniffing. Narry is exactly of the mold with which the collective temperaments of Helen and her family have stamped her. She is absolutely adamant with everyone not a member of the family and absolutely putty in the hands of the least capable of them.

Narry—You might just not call me “old lady.” (She sniffs, and handkerchiefs herself.) Goodness gracious! I feel old enough now with you going out.

Helen—Coming!