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--er--and 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?

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--

Dorothy. Mr. Yardsley!

Yardsley (pulling himself together again). Bobbed. Hicks be Bobbed.

That's what I was going to say.

Dorothy. What on earth does this all mean? I must have an explanation, Jennie. What have you to say for yourself?

Jennie. Why, I--

Yardsley. I tell you it isn't true. She's made it up out of whole cloth.

Barlow. What isn't true? She hasn't said anything yet.

Yardsley (desperately). I refer to what she's going to say. I'm a-- a--I'm a mind-reader, and I see it all as plain as day.

Dorothy. I can best judge of the truth of Jennie's words when she has spoken them, Mr. Yardsley. Jennie, you may explain, if you can.

What do you mean by Hicks killing Mr. Yardsley, and why do you presume to call Mr. Yardsley by his first name?

Yardsley (aside). Heigho! My goose is cooked.

Barlow. I fancy you wish you had taken that walk I suggested now.

Yardsley. You always were a good deal of a fancier.