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.
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