[_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--erand 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 assure 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.