_Dorothy._ Ha, ha, ha!

_Barlow._ Another joke? Good. Let me enjoy it, too. Hee, hee!

_Jennie._ Pst!

[_BARLOW looks around; JENNIE hastily withdraws her head._

_Barlow._ I didn't know you had steam heat in this house.

_Dorothy._ We haven't. What put such an idea as that into your head?

_Barlow._ Why, I thought I heard the hissing of steam, the click of a radiator, or something of that sort back by the door.

_Yardsley._ Maybe the house is haunted.

_Dorothy._ I fancy it was your imagination; or perhaps it was the wind blowing through the hall. The pantry window is open.

_Barlow._ I guess maybe that's it. How fine it must be in the country now!

[_JENNIE pokes her head in through the portieres again, and follows it with her arm and hand, in which is a feather-duster, which she waves wildly in an endeavor to attract YARDSLEY'S attention._

_Dorothy._ Divine. I should so love to be out of town still. It seems to me people always make a great mistake returning to the city so early in the fall. The country is really at its best at this time of year.

[_YARDSLEY turns half around, and is about to speak, when he catches sight of the now almost hysterical JENNIE and her feather-duster._

_Barlow._ Yes; I think so too. I was at Lenox last week, and the foliage was gorgeous.

_Yardsley_ (_feeling that he must say something_). Yes. I suppose all the feathers on the maple-trees are turning red by this time.

_Dorothy._ Feathers, Mr. Yardsley?

_Barlow._ Feathers?

_Yardsley_ (_with a furtive glance at JENNIE_). Ha, ha! What an absurd slip! Did I say feathers? I meant--I meant leaves, of course. All the leaves on the dusters are turning.

_Barlow._ I don't believe you know what you do mean. Who ever heard of leaves on dusters? What are dusters? Do you know, Miss Dorothy?

[_As he turns to MISS ANDREWS, YARDSLEY tries to wave JENNIE away. She beckons with her arms more wildly than ever, and YARDSLEY silently speaks the words_, "Go away."

_Dorothy._ I'm sure I don't know of any tree by that name, but then I'm not a--not a what?

_Yardsley_ (_with a forced laugh_). Treeologist.

_Dorothy._ What are dusters, Mr. Yardsley?

_Barlow._ Yes, old man, tell us. I'm anxious to find out myself.

_Yardsley_ (_aside_). So am I. What the deuce are dusters, for this occasion only? (_Aloud._) What? Never heard of dusters? Ho! Why, dear me, where have you been all your lives? (_Aside._) Must gain time to think up what dusters are. (_Aloud._) Why, they're as old as the hills.

_Barlow._ That may be, but I can't say I think your description is at all definite.

_Dorothy._ Do they look like maples?

_Yardsley_ (_with an angry wave of his arms towards JENNIE_).

Something--in fact, very much. They're exactly like them. You can hardly tell them from oaks.

_Barlow._ Oaks?

_Yardsley._ I said oaks. Oaks! O-A-K-S!

_Barlow._ But oaks aren't like maples.

_Yardsley._ Well, who said they were? We were talking about oaks--and--erand dusters. We--er--we used to have a row of them in front of our old house at--(_Aside._) Now where the deuce did we have the old house? Never had one, but we must for the sake of the present situation. (_Aloud._) Up at--at--Bryn-Mawr--or at--Troy, or some such place, and--at--they kept the--the dust of the highway from getting into the house. (_With a sigh of relief._) And so, you see, they were called dusters. Thought every one knew that.

[_As YARDSLEY finishes, JENNIE loses her balance and falls headlong into the room._

_Dorothy_ (_starting up hastily_). Why, Jennie!

_Yardsley_ (_staggering into chair_). That settles it. It's all up with me.

[_JENNIE sobs, and, rising, rushes to YARDSLEY'S side._

_Jennie._ Save yourself; he's going to kill you!

_Dorothy._ Jennie! What is the meaning of this? Mr. Yardsley--can--can you shed any light on this mystery?

_Yardsley_ (_pulling himself together with a great effort_). I? I a.s.sure you I can't, Miss Andrews. How could I? All I know is that somebody is--is going to kill me, though for what I haven't the slightest idea.

_Jennie_ (_indignantly_). Eh? What? Why, Mr. Yardsley--Bob!

_Barlow._ Bob?

_Dorothy._ Jennie! Bob?

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WHY, JENNIE!"]

_Yardsley._ Don't you call me Bob.

_Jennie._ It's Hicks.

[_Bursts out crying._

_Barlow._ Hicks?

_Dorothy._ Jennie, Hicks isn't Bob. His name is George.

_Yardsley_ (_in a despairing rage_). Hicks be--