_Barlow._ I have not the honor of the young woman's confidence, and so could not have given you the information. _Dorothy._ I didn't know it, so how could I have told you? _Yardsley_ (_desperately_). Then I must have dreamed it. I do have the queerest dreams sometimes, but there's nothing strange about this one, anyhow. Parlor-maids frequently do--er--become engaged to coachmen and butlers and that sort of thing. It isn't a rare occurrence at all. If I'd said she was engaged to Billie Wilkins, or to--to Barlow here-- _Barlow._ Or to yourself. _Yardsley._ Sir? What do you mean to insinuate? That I am engaged to Jennie? _Barlow._ I never said so. _Dorothy._ Oh, dear, let us have the tea. You quarrelsome men are just wearing me out. Mr. Barlow, do you want cream in yours? _Barlow._ If you please; and one lump of sugar. (_DOROTHY pours it out._) Thanks. _Dorothy._ Mr. Yardsley? _Yardsley._ Just a little, Miss Andrews. No cream, and no sugar. [_DOROTHY prepares a cup for YARDSLEY. He is about to take it when--_ _Dorothy._ Well, I declare! _It's nothing but hot water! I forgot the tea entirely!_ _Barlow_ (_with a laugh_). Oh, never mind. Hot water is good for dyspepsia. [_With a significant look at YARDSLEY._ _Yardsley._ It depends on how you get it, Mr. Barlow. I've known men who've got dyspepsia from living in hot water too much. [_As YARDSLEY speaks the portière is violently clutched from without, and JENNIE'S head is thrust into the room. No one observes her._ _Barlow._ Well, my cup is very satisfactory to me, Miss Dorothy. Fact is, I've always been fond of cambric tea, and this is just right. _Yardsley_ (_patronizingly_). It _is_ good for children. _Jennie_ (_trying to attract YARDSLEY'S attention_). Pst! _Yardsley._ My mamma lets me have it Sunday nights. _Dorothy._ Ha, ha, ha! _Barlow._ Another joke? Good. Let me enjoy it, too. Hee, hee! _Jennie._ Pst! [_BARLOW looks around; JENNIE hastily withdraws her head._ _Barlow._ I didn't know you had steam heat in this house. _Dorothy._ We haven't. What put such an idea as that into your head? _Barlow._ Why, I thought I heard the hissing of steam, the click of a radiator, or something of that sort back by the door. _Yardsley._ Maybe the house is haunted. _Dorothy._ I fancy it was your imagination; or perhaps it was the wind blowing through the hall. The pantry window is open. _Barlow._ I guess maybe that's it. How fine it must be in the country now! [_JENNIE pokes her head in through the portières 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.