MRS. LISTER.—Ah, here comes Mr. Libriver, with my “Intellectual Life.” Thank you, Mr. Libriver—you are always so kind! MRS. LANG.—And Mr. Libriver has brought me my “Status of Woman.” Oh, thank you, Mr. Libriver. MR. LIBRIVER, _a thin young man in a linen duster, retires, blushing_. MRS. LISTER.—Mr. Libriver does _so_ appreciate women who are free from the bondage of the novel. Did you hear about poor Rhodora’s funeral? MRS. LANG (_with a sweeping grasp at the intellectual side of the conversation_).—Oh, I _despise_ love–stories. In the church? Oh, yes, I heard. (_Sweetly_). Dr. Homly told me. Doesn’t it seem just a little—ostentatious? MRS. LISTER.—Ostentatious—but, do you know, my dear, there are to be eight pall–bearers! MRS. LANG (_turning defeat into victory_).—No, I did _not_ know. I don’t suppose that ridiculous old maid, that Miss Wimple, who seems to be conducting the affair, _dared_ to tell _that_ to Dr. Homly. And who are they? MRS. LISTER (_with exceeding sweetness_).—Oh, I don’t know, dear. Only I met Mr. Townsend, and he told me that Dr. Homly had just told _him_ that he was one of the eight. MRS. LISTER.—Dexter Townsend! Why, it’s scandalous. Everybody knows that he proposed to her three times and that she threw him over. It’s an insult to—to— MRS. LANG.—To poor dear Alma Townsend. I quite agree with you. I should like to know how she feels—if she understands what it means. MRS. LISTER.—Well, if I were in her place— _Enter_ MRS. DEXTER TOWNSEND. MRS. LANG. } MRS. LISTER.} Why, Alma! MRS. TOWNSEND.—Why, Ellen! Why, Mary! Oh, I’m so glad to meet you both. I want you to lunch with me to–morrow at one o’clock. I do so _hate_ to be left alone. And poor Rhodora Pennington—Mrs. Boyd, I mean—her funeral is at noon, and our three male protectors will have to go to the cemetery, and Mr. Townsend is just going to take a cold bite before he goes, and so I’m left to lunch— MRS. LANG (_coldly_).—I don’t think Mr. Lang will go to the cemetery— MRS. LISTER.—There is no reason why Mr. Lister— MRS. TOWNSEND.—But, don’t you know?—They’re all to be pall–bearers! They can’t refuse, of course. MRS. LANG (_icily_).—Oh, no, certainly not. MRS. LISTER (_below zero_).—I suppose it is an unavoidable duty. MRS. LANG.—Alma, is that your _old_ Surah? What _did_ you do to it? MRS. LISTER.—They _do_ dye things so wonderfully nowadays! * * * * * SCENE.—_A Verandah in front of_ MR. MCCULLOM MCINTOSH’S _house_. MRS. MCCULLOM MCINTOSH _seated, with fancy work. To her, enter_ MR. WILLIAM JANS _and_ MR. MILO SMITH. MRS. MCINTOSH (_with effusion_).—Oh, Mr. Jans, I’m so delighted to see you! And Mr. Smith, too! I never expect to see you busy men at this time in the afternoon. And how is Laura?—and Millicent? Now _don’t_ tell me that you’ve come to say that you can’t go fishing with Mr. McIntosh to–morrow! He’ll be _so_ disappointed! MR. JANS.—Well, the fact is—