(TARVER _and_ PHYLLIS _re-enter, go to fender and sit_. TARVER _has had his clothes brushed_.)

GRICE. I never saw a paper with anything in it. (_Pause_.) How about the bye-elections?

FARADAY. (_Grunting, absorbed in his paper_) Huh! (_Long pause_.)

EVELYN. (_Reading front page_) Oh, Madge, Elsie Hardiman is engaged.

MADGE. Not really?

AUNT IDA. (_From up stage, comes slightly_ R.C. _Uneasily and anxiously watching_ EVELYN) Isn't there--isn't there any other news, Evelyn?

EVELYN. No, dear.

AUNT IDA. Anybody married?

EVELYN. No one we know.

AUNT IDA. (_With a forced attempt at cheerfulness_) Or dead?

EVELYN. (_Absently. Looking over paper_) No, dear. Ab--so--lutely noth---- (_Her eye suddenly lights on_ SMITH'S _death notice. She reads it in pantomime. A look of horror comes over her face and she utters a shrill scream_.)

(_All rise hastily with exclamations_.)

FARADAY. (_Jumping to his feet_) G.o.d bless my soul! What's the matter, what's the matter?

TARVER. Great Scott! What's the matter?

MADGE. What _is_ the matter, Evelyn?

GRICE. (_Coming center_) Really, Lady Trenchard, you ought not to startle people like that. It's selfish. (_Goes to her, takes paper from her limp hand and comes down stage_.) What's the news, eh?

FARADAY. (_Taking paper from_ GRICE _with importance, and crossing_ L.) _I'll_ tell you.

EVELYN. (_In hushed whisper_) Father, the deaths, the deaths!

(_During the following scene_, GRICE _is fairly dancing with impatience_.)

FARADAY. (_Reads death notice and sits heavily extreme_ L. _with a sigh_) Poor girl!

MADGE. (_From above table_) Father.

(FARADAY _hands paper to_ MADGE, _saying, "Read, read."_)

PHYLLIS. (_After a slight pause runs across stage to_ MADGE) What is it, Madge?

MADGE. Oh, Phyllis.

PHYLLIS. (_Stands by_ MADGE, _takes paper and reads_) That does seem cruel, doesn't it?

GRICE. Why do people want to keep the news to themselves? (_Takes paper away from_ PHYLLIS _and comes down_ C. _He reads_) Whew!

(_Stands ruminating_) Well, well, well, well! (_Holds paper to him_.)

TARVER. (_Seated in chair below fender. Plaintively_) Will somebody kindly tell _me_ what's happened?

GRICE. Always thinking of yourself, Tarver. (_Reads slowly and impressively_) "On October the 11th--of wounds--at Berbera, Somaliland--Colonel Smith."

TARVER. (_Feeling that he must say something_) On October the 11th--that is tough, isn't it?

FARADAY. Yes, it's hard. I've been inquiring about rooms at the Club.

I didn't expect this.

PHYLLIS. (_At head of table_) It's more terribly and cruelly hard on Celia than it would be upon _any other woman_.

GRICE. (_Putting paper on table_) Why?

PHYLLIS. Because---- (_Breaks off_.) Don't you remember the night when she told us of her engagement eight months ago. She said then that her betrothal would make an extraordinary difference in her life.

(_READY Doorbell_.)

EVELYN. Then she wasn't happy. Now she is.

MADGE. And when she is, this blow falls without even a telegram to break the force of it.

PHYLLIS. It is too horrible. Nothing but an announcement in the Times sent by post.

(NOTE: _The voices in each succeeding line should descend in scale_.)

MADGE. On October the 11th----

TARVER. Of wounds----

FARADAY. At Berbera----

EVELYN. Somaliland----

GRICE. Colonel Smith----

TARVER. (_Rising and coming_ L. _to stool below table_) By Jove! If Celia withdraws from the _contest_, I'm done.