(_The patients, about forty in number, straggle in from the dining-room by twos and threes, chatting in low tones. The men and women with few exceptions separate into two groups, the women congregating in the left right angle of chairs, the men sitting or standing in the right right angle. In appearance, most of the patients are tanned, healthy, and cheerful-looking. The great majority are under middle age. Their clothes are of the cheap, ready-made variety. They are all distinctly of the wage-earning class. They might well be a crowd of cosmopolitan factory workers gathered together after a summer vacation. A hollow-chestedness and a tendency to round shoulders may be detected as a common characteristic. A general air of tension, marked by frequent bursts of laughter in too high a key, seems to pervade the throng._ Murray _and_ Eileen, _as if to avoid contact with the others, come over to the right in front of the dining-room door._) MURRAY (_in a low voice_). Listen to them laugh. Did you ever notice--perhaps it's my imagination--how forced they act on Saturday mornings before they're weighed? EILEEN (_dully_). No. MURRAY. Can't you tell me that secret now? No one'll hear. EILEEN (_vehemently_). No, no, how could I? Don't speak of it! (_A sudden silence falls on all the groups at once. Their eyes, by a common impulse, turn quickly towards the door to the hall._) A WOMAN (_nervously--as if this moment's silent pause oppressed her._) Play something, Peters. They ain't coming yet. (Peters, _a stupid-looking young fellow with a sly, twisted smirk which gives him the appearance of perpetually winking his eye, detaches himself from a group on the right. All join in with urging exclamations: "Go on, Peters! Go to it! Pedal up, Pete! Give us a rag! That's the boy, Peters!" etc._) PETERS. Sure, if I got time. (_He goes to the pianola and puts in a roll. The mingled conversation and laughter bursts forth again as he sits on the bench and starts pedalling._) MURRAY (_disgustedly_). It's sure good to think I won't have to listen to that old tin-pan being banged much longer! (_The music interrupts him--a quick rag. The patients brighten, hum, whistle, sway their heads or tap their feet in time to the tune._ Doctor Stanton _and_ Doctor Simms _appear in the doorway from the hall. All eyes are turned on them._) STANTON (_raising his voice_). They all seem to be here, Doctor. We might as well start. (Mrs. Turner, _the matron, comes in behind them--a stout, motherly, capable-looking woman with grey hair. She hears_ Stanton's _remark._) MRS. TURNER. And take temperatures after, Doctor? STANTON. Yes, Mrs. Turner. I think that's better to-day. MRS. TURNER. All right, Doctor.