[_Kissing Clara._] Yes, dear, you are your mother's
own child. And you lose the most by it, too.
[_Leaning against the side of her mother's chair, with one arm about
her mother._
CLARA. Yes, indeed, instead of coming out next month, and having a
perfectly lovely winter, I'll have to mope the whole season, and, if I
don't look out, be a wallflower without ever having been a bud!
MRS. HUNTER. [Half amused but feeling CLARA'S _remark is
perhaps not quite the right thing._] Sh--
[During CLARA'S _speech above,_ BLANCHE has taken JESSICA
_in her arms a moment and kissed her tenderly, slowly. They rejoin_
MRS. HUNTER, BLANCHE _wiping her eyes,_ JESSICA _still
tearless._
CLARA. And think of all the clothes we brought home from Paris last
month!
MRS. HUNTER. My dear, don't think of clothes--think of your poor
father! That street dress of mine will dye very well, and we'll give the
rest to your aunt and cousins.
BLANCHE. Mother, don't you want to go upstairs?
JESSICA. [_Sincerely moved._] Yes, I hate this room now.
MRS. HUNTER. [_Rising._] Hate this room! When we've just had it
done! Louis Kinge!
BLANCHE. Louis Quinze, dear! She means the associations now,
mother.
MRS. HUNTER. Oh, yes, but that's weak and foolish, Jessie. No,
Blanche--[_Sitting again._]--I'm too exhausted to move. Ring for tea.
[BLANCHE _rings the bell beside the mantel._
CLARA. [_Crossing to piano, forgets and starts to play a music-hall
song, but_ MRS. HUNTER _stops her._] Oh, yes, tea! I'm starved!
MRS. HUNTER. Clara, darling! As if you could be hungry at such a
time!
[JORDAN _enters Left._
BLANCHE. Tea, Jordan.
JORDAN. Yes, madam.
[_He goes out Left._
MRS. HUNTER. Girls, everybody in town was there! I'm sure even
your father himself couldn't have complained.
BLANCHE. Mother!
MRS. HUNTER. Well, you know he always found fault with my
parties being too mixed. He wouldn't realize I couldn't throw over all
my old set when I married into his,--not that I ever acknowledged I was
your father's inferior. I consider my family was just as good as his, only
we were Presbyterians!
BLANCHE. Mother, dear, take off your gloves.
MRS. HUNTER. I thought I had. [_Crying._] I'm so heartbroken I don't
know what I'm doing.
[_Taking off her gloves._
[BLANCHE and CLARA _comfort their mother._
JESSICA. Here's the tea--
[JORDAN and LEONARD _enter with large, silver tray, with tea, cups,
and thin bread-and-butter sandwiches. They place them on small
tea-table which_ JESSICA _arranges for them._
MRS. HUNTER. I'm afraid I can't touch it.
[_Taking her place behind tea-table and biting eagerly into a
sandwich._
JESSICA. [_Dryly._] Try.
[BLANCHE _pours tea for them all, which they take in turn._
MRS. HUNTER. [_Eating._] One thing I was furious about,--did you
see the Witherspoons here at the house?
CLARA. I did.
MRS. HUNTER. The idea! When I've never called on them. They are
the worst social pushers I've ever known.
[_She takes another sandwich._
CLARA. Trying to make people think they are on our visiting list!
Using even a funeral to get in!
MRS. HUNTER. But I was glad the Worthings were here, and I
thought it sweet of old Mr. Dormer to go even to the cemetery. [_Voice
breaks a little._] He never goes to balls any more, and, they say, catches
cold at the slightest change of temperature.
[_She takes a third sandwich._
BLANCHE. A great many people loved father.
MRS. HUNTER. [_Irritably._] They ought to've. It was really foolish
the way he was always doing something for somebody! How good
these sandwiches are! [_Spoken very plaintively._
JESSICA. Shall we have to economize now, mother?
MRS. HUNTER. Of course not; how dare you suggest such an injustice
to your father, and before the flowers are withered on his grave!
[_Again becoming tearful._
[JORDAN _enters Left with a small silver tray, heaping full of letters._
Has the new writing paper come?
BLANCHE. [_Who takes the letters and looks through them, giving
some to her mother._] Yes.
[BLANCHE _reads a letter, and passes it to_ JESSICA.
MRS. HUNTER. Is the black border broad enough? They said it was
the thing.
CLARA. If you had it any broader, you'd have to get white ink to write
with!
MRS. HUNTER. [_Sweetly._] Don't be impertinent, darling!
[_Reading another letter._
[Enter MISS RUTH HUNTER. _She is an unmarried woman between
thirty and forty years of age, handsome, distinguished; an aristocrat,
without any pretensions; simple, unaffected, and direct in her effort to
do kindnesses where they are not absolutely undeserved. She enters the
room as if she carried with her an atmosphere of pure ozone. This
affects all those in it. She is dressed in deep mourning and wears a
thick chiffon veil, which she removes as she enters._
RUTH. Oh! you're having tea!
[_Glad that they are._
MRS. HUNTER. [_Taking a second cup._] I
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