Mrs. Robert Edwards. I think it will rain to-day, but there is no need to worry about that. Robert has his umbrella and his mackintosh, and I dont think he is idiotic enough to lend both of them. If he does, hell get wet, thats all. Mrs. Edwards is speaking to herself in the sewing-room of the apartment occupied by herself and her husband in the Hotel Hammingbell at Boston. It is not a large room, but cosey. A frieze one foot deep runs about the ceiling, and there is a carpet on the floor. Three pins are seen scattered about the room, in one corner of which is a cane-bottomed chair holding across its back two black vests and a cutaway coat. Mrs. Edwards sits before a Wilcox & Wilson sewing-machine sewing a button on a light spring overcoat. The overcoat has one outside and three inside pockets, and is single-breasted. It is curious, Mrs. Edwards continues, what men will do with umbrellas and mackintoshes on a rainy day. They lend them here and there, and the worst part of it is they never remember where. A knock is heard at the door. Whos there?
Voice (without). Me.
Mrs. Robert Edwards (with a nervous shudder). Come in. Enter Mary the house-maid. She is becomingly attired in blue alpaca, with green ribbons and puffed sleeves. She holds a feather duster in her right hand, and in her left is a jar of Royal Worcester. Mary, Mrs. Edwards says, severely, where are we at?
Mary (meekly). Boston, maam.
Mrs. Robert Edwards.