THE CLIMBERS

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS

By

CLYDE FITCH

Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown & Co.

Copyright, 1905,
By LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
all rights reserved

This play is fully protected by the copyright law, all requirements of which have been complied with. In its present printed form it is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance of it, either professional or amateur, may be given without the written permission of the owner of the acting rights, who may be addressed in care of the publishers, Little, Brown, and Company.

TO
CHARLES T. MATHEWS
in grateful recognition of his
true friendship and loyal enthusiasm
from the beginning
C.F.

THE CLIMBERS

New York: To-Day

THE PEOPLE IN THE PLAY

(Transcriber's Note: One character is listed as Dr. Steinart in the List of Characters, but Dr. Steinhart in the body of the play.)

Originally produced at the Bijou Theatre, New York, January 21, 1901, with the following cast:—

Produced at the Comedy Theatre, London, September 5, 1903, with the following cast:—

ACT I

A drawing-room at the Hunters', handsomely and artistically furnished. The woodwork and furniture are in the period of Louis XVI. The walls and furniture are covered with yellow brocade, and the curtains are of the same golden material. At the back are two large windows which give out on Fifth Avenue, opposite the Park, the trees of which are seen across the way. At Left is a double doorway, leading into the hall. At Right, opposite, is a door which leads to other rooms, and thence to other parts of the house. In the centre, at back, between the two windows, is the fireplace; on the mantel are two vases and a clock in dark blue ormolu. There is a white and gold piano on the Right side of the room. The room suggests much wealth, and that it has been done by a professional decorator; the personal note of taste is lacking.

It is four o'clock in the afternoon. The shades of the windows are drawn down. There are rows and rows of camp-chairs filling the entire room.

The curtain rises slowly. After a moment, Jordan, the butler, and Leonard, a footman, enter from the Left and begin to gather together and carry out the camp-chairs. They do this with very serious faces, and take great pains to step softly and to make no noise. They enter a second time for more chairs.

Jordan. [Whispers to Leonard.] When are they coming for the chairs?

Leonard. [Whispers back.] To-night. Say, it was fine, wasn't it!

Jordan. Grand!

[They go out with the chairs and immediately reënter for more. They are followed in this time by a lady's maid, Tompson; she is not a young woman. As she crosses the room she stoops and picks up a faded flower which has fallen from some emblem. She goes to the window at Right, and peeps out. She turns around and looks at the others. They all speak in subdued voices.

Tompson. Jordan, what do you think—can we raise the shades now?

Jordan. Yes, of course—after they've left the house it's all over as far as we here are concerned.

[She raises both shades.

Tompson. Phew! what an odor of flowers!

[She opens one of the windows a little.

[Marie, a young, pretty, French woman, enters from the Right.

Marie. Will I help you?

Tompson. Just with this table, thank you, Marie. [They begin to rearrange the room, putting it in its normal condition. They replace the table and put back the ornaments upon it.] Poor Mr. Hunter, and him so fond of mince pie. I shall never forget how that man ate mince pie.

[She sighs lugubriously and continues her labor with the room.

Leonard. I hope as how it's not going to make any difference with us.

Jordan. [Pompously.] Of course not; wasn't Mr. Hunter a millionnaire?

Tompson. Some millionnaires I've known turned out poor as Job's turkey in their coffins!

Marie. What you say? You tink we shall 'ave some of madame's or ze young ladies' dresses?

Tompson. [Hopefully.] Perhaps.

Marie. I 'ave already made my choice. I like ze pale pink of Mees Jessie.

Leonard. Sh! I heard a carridge.

Tompson. Then they're coming back.

[Marie quickly goes out Right.

Jordan. [To Leonard, hurriedly, as he quickly goes out Left.] Take them last two chairs!

[Leonard, with the chairs, follows Jordan out Left. Tompson hastily puts back a last arm-chair to its usual position in the room and goes out Right. Mrs. Hunter enters Left, followed by her three daughters, Blanche, Jessica, and Clara, and Master Sterling, who is a small, attractive child, five years of age. All are in the deepest conventional mourning, Mrs. Hunter in widow's weeds and Clara with a heavy, black chiffon veil; the Boy is also dressed in conventional mourning. As soon as they enter, all four women lift their veils. Mrs. Hunter is a well-preserved woman, with a pretty, rather foolish, and somewhat querulous face. Her figure is the latest mode. Blanche Sterling, her oldest daughter, is her antithesis,—a handsome, dignified woman, young, sincere, and showing, in her attitude to the others and in her own point of view, the warmth of a true, evenly-balanced nature. Jessica is a typical second child,—nice, good, self-effacing, sympathetic, unspoiled. Clara is her opposite,—spoiled, petulant, pretty, pert, and selfish.

Mrs. Hunter. [With a long sigh.] Oh, I am so glad to be back home and the whole thing over without a hitch!

[She sinks with a great sigh of relief into a big chair.

Blanche. [Takes her son to Mrs. Hunter.] Kiss grandmother good-by, and then Leonard will take you home.

Mrs. Hunter. Good-by, dear. Be a good boy. Don't eat too much candy.

[Kisses him carelessly.

Master Sterling. Good-by. [Runs towards the door Left, shouting happily.] Leonard! Leonard!

Mrs. Hunter. [Tearfully.] My dears, it was a great success! Everybody was there!

[The three younger women stand and look about the room, as if it were strange to them—as if it were empty. There is a moment's silence.

Blanche. [Tenderly.] Mother, why don't you take off your bonnet?

Mrs. Hunter. Take it off for me; it will be a great relief.

Blanche. Help me, Jess.

Mrs. Hunter. [Irritably.] Yes, do something, Jessie. You've mortified me terribly to-day! That child hasn't shed a tear. People'll think you didn't love your father. [The two are taking off Mrs. Hunter's bonnet. Mrs. Hunter waits for an answer from Jessica; none comes.] I never saw any one so heartless! [Tearful again.] And her father adored her. She was one of the things we quarrelled most about!

[Over Mrs. Hunter's head Blanche exchanges a sympathetic look with Jessica to show she understands.

Clara. I'm sure I've cried enough. I've cried buckets.

[She goes to Mrs. Hunter as Blanche and Jessica take away the bonnet and veil and put them on the piano.

Mrs. Hunter. [Kissing Clara.] Yes, dear, you are your mother's own child. And you lose the most by it, too.

[Leaning against the side of her mother's chair, with one arm about her mother.

Clara. Yes, indeed, instead of coming out next month, and having a perfectly lovely winter, I'll have to mope the whole season, and, if I don't look out, be a wallflower without ever having been a bud!

Mrs. Hunter. [Half amused but feeling Clara's remark is perhaps not quite the right thing.] Sh—

[During Clara's speech above, Blanche has taken Jessica in her arms a moment and kissed her tenderly, slowly. They rejoin Mrs. Hunter, Blanche wiping her eyes, Jessica still tearless.

Clara. And think of all the clothes we brought home from Paris last month!

Mrs. Hunter. My dear, don't think of clothes—think of your poor father! That street dress of mine will dye very well, and we'll give the rest to your aunt and cousins.

Blanche. Mother, don't you want to go upstairs?

Jessica. [Sincerely moved.] Yes, I hate this room now.

Mrs. Hunter. [Rising.] Hate this room! When we've just had it done! Louis Kinge!

Blanche. Louis Quinze, dear! She means the associations now, mother.

Mrs. Hunter. Oh, yes, but that's weak and foolish, Jessie. No, Blanche—[Sitting again.]—I'm too exhausted to move. Ring for tea.

[Blanche rings the bell beside the mantel.

Clara. [Crossing to piano, forgets and starts to play a music-hall song, but Mrs. Hunter stops her.] Oh, yes, tea! I'm starved!

Mrs. Hunter. Clara, darling! As if you could be hungry at such a time!

[Jordan enters Left.

Blanche. Tea, Jordan.

Jordan. Yes, madam.

[He goes out Left.

Mrs. Hunter. Girls, everybody in town was there! I'm sure even your father himself couldn't have complained.

Blanche. Mother!

Mrs. Hunter. Well, you know he always found fault with my parties being too mixed. He wouldn't realize I couldn't throw over all my old set when I married into his,—not that I ever acknowledged I was your father's inferior. I consider my family was just as good as his, only we were Presbyterians!

Blanche. Mother, dear, take off your gloves.

Mrs. Hunter. I thought I had. [Crying.] I'm so heartbroken I don't know what I'm doing.

[Taking off her gloves.

[Blanche and Clara comfort their mother.

Jessica. Here's the tea—

[Jordan and Leonard enter with large, silver tray, with tea, cups, and thin bread-and-butter sandwiches. They place them on small tea-table which Jessica arranges for them.

Mrs. Hunter. I'm afraid I can't touch it.

[Taking her place behind tea-table and biting eagerly into a sandwich.

Jessica. [Dryly.] Try.

[Blanche pours tea for them all, which they take in turn.

Mrs. Hunter. [Eating.] One thing I was furious about,—did you see the Witherspoons here at the house?

Clara. I did.

Mrs. Hunter. The idea! When I've never called on them. They are the worst social pushers I've ever known.

[She takes another sandwich.

Clara. Trying to make people think they are on our visiting list! Using even a funeral to get in!

Mrs. Hunter. But I was glad the Worthings were here, and I thought it sweet of old Mr. Dormer to go even to the cemetery. [Voice breaks a little.] He never goes to balls any more, and, they say, catches cold at the slightest change of temperature.

[She takes a third sandwich.

Blanche. A great many people loved father.

Mrs. Hunter. [Irritably.] They ought to've. It was really foolish the way he was always doing something for somebody! How good these sandwiches are! [Spoken very plaintively.

Jessica. Shall we have to economize now, mother?

Mrs. Hunter. Of course not; how dare you suggest such an injustice to your father, and before the flowers are withered on his grave!

[Again becoming tearful.

[Jordan enters Left with a small silver tray, heaping full of letters.

Has the new writing paper come?

Blanche. [Who takes the letters and looks through them, giving some to her mother.] Yes.

[Blanche reads a letter, and passes it to Jessica.

Mrs. Hunter. Is the black border broad enough? They said it was the thing.

Clara. If you had it any broader, you'd have to get white ink to write with!

Mrs. Hunter. [Sweetly.] Don't be impertinent, darling!

[Reading another letter.

[Enter Miss Ruth Hunter. She is an unmarried woman between thirty and forty years of age, handsome, distinguished; an aristocrat, without any pretensions; simple, unaffected, and direct in her effort to do kindnesses where they are not absolutely undeserved. She enters the room as if she carried with her an atmosphere of pure ozone. This affects all those in it. She is dressed in deep mourning and wears a thick chiffon veil, which she removes as she enters.

Ruth. Oh! you're having tea!

[Glad that they are.

Mrs. Hunter. [Taking a second cup.] I thought the children ought to.

Ruth. Of course they ought and so ought you, if you haven't.

Mrs. Hunter. Oh, I've trifled with something.

Jessica. Sit here, Aunt Ruth.

Blanche. Will you have a cup, Aunt Ruth?

Ruth. Yes, dear, I'm feeling very hungry.

[Sitting on the sofa beside Jessica and pressing her hand as she does so.

Mrs. Hunter. Hungry! How can you!

Ruth. Because I'm not a hypocrite!

Mrs. Hunter. [Whimpering.] I suppose that's a slur at me!

Ruth. If the slipper fits! But I confess I haven't eaten much for several days; I couldn't touch anything this morning, and I begin to feel exhausted; I must have food and, thank Heaven, I want it. Thank you.

[To Blanche, taking the cup from her.

Mrs. Hunter. I think it's awful, Ruth, and I feel I have a right to say it—I think you owed it to my feelings to have worn a long veil; people will think you didn't love your brother.

Ruth. [Dryly.] Will they? Let them! You know as well as I do that George loathed the very idea of crêpe and all display of mourning.

Mrs. Hunter. [Feeling out of her element, changes the subject.] You stayed behind?

Ruth. Yes. I wanted to be the last there. [Her voice chokes; she tries to control herself.] Ah! you see my nerves are all gone to pieces. I won't cry any more!

Mrs. Hunter. I don't see how you could bear it—staying; but you never had any heart, Ruth.

Ruth. [Mechanically, biting her lips hard to keep the tears back.] Haven't I?

Mrs. Hunter. My darling husband always felt that defect in you.

Ruth. George?

Mrs. Hunter. He resented your treatment of me, and often said so.

Ruth. [Very quietly, but with determination.] Please be careful. Don't talk to me like this about my brother, Florence—or you'll make me say something I shall be sorry for.

Mrs. Hunter. I don't care! It wore on him, the way you treated me. I put up with it for his sake, but it helped undermine his health.

Ruth. Florence, stop!

Mrs. Hunter. [In foolish anger, the resentment of years bursting out.] I won't stop! I'm alone now, and the least you can do is to see that people who've fought shy of me take me up and give me my due. You've been a cruel, selfish sister-in-law, and your own brother saw and hated you for it!

Blanche. Mother!

Ruth. [Outraged.] Send your daughters out of the room; I wish to answer you alone.

Mrs. Hunter. [Frightened.] No! what you have to say to me I prefer my children to hear!

[Clara comes over to her mother and puts her arm about her.

Ruth. I can't remain quiet any longer. George—[She almost breaks down, but she controls herself.] This funeral is enough, with its show and worldliness! I don't believe there was a soul in the church you didn't see! Look at your handkerchief! Real grief isn't measured by the width of a black border. I'm ashamed of you, Florence! I never liked you very much, although I tried to for your husband's sake, but now I'm even more ashamed of you. My dear brother is gone, and there need be no further bond between us, but I want you to understand the true reason why, from to-day, I keep away from you. This funeral was revolting to me!—a show spectacle, a social function, and for him who you know hated the very thing. [She stops a moment to control her tears and her anger.] I saw the reporters there, and I heard your message to them, and I contradicted it. I begged them not to use your information, and they were gentlemen and promised me not to. You are, and always have been, a silly, frivolous woman. I don't doubt you loved your husband as much as you could any man, but it wasn't enough for me; he was worth being adored by the best and noblest woman in the world. I've stood by all these years, trying with my love and silent sympathy to be some comfort to him—but I saw the disappointment and disillusionment eat away the very hope of happiness out of his heart. I tried to help him by helping you in your foolish ambitions, doing what I could to give my brother's wife the social position his name entitled her to!

Mrs. Hunter. That's not true; I've had to fight it out all alone!

Ruth. It was not my fault if my best friends found you intolerable; I couldn't blame them. Well, now it's over! George is at rest, please God. You are a rich woman to do what you please. Go, and do it! and Heaven forgive you for ruining my brother's life! I'm sorry to have said all this before your children. Blanche, you know how dearly I love you, and I hope you have forgiven me by now for my opposition to your marriage.

Blanche. Of course I've forgiven you, but you were always unjust to Dick.

Ruth. Yes; I didn't like your husband then, and I didn't believe in him, but I like him better now. And I am going to put all my affairs in his hands. I couldn't show—surely—a better proof of confidence and liking than that: to trust him as I did—your father. I hope I shall see much of you and Jessica. As for you, Clara, I must be honest—

Clara. [Interrupting her.] Oh, I know you've always hated me! The presents you gave the other girls were always twice as nice as I got!

Mrs. Hunter. [Sympathetically.] Come here, darling.

[Clara goes and puts her arms about her mother's neck.

Ruth. You are your mother's own child, Clara, and I never could pretend anything I didn't feel. [She turns to Blanche and Jessica, who stand side by side.] You two are all I have left in the world of my brother. [She kisses them, and lets the tears come, this time without struggling.] Take pity on your old-maid aunt and come and see me, won't you, often—[Trying to smile away her tears.] And now good-by!

Jessica and Ruth. [Taking her hands.] Good-by.

[Ruth looks about the room to say good-by to it; she cries and hurriedly begins pulling down her veil, and starts to go out as Jordan enters Left and announces "Mr. Mason!"

[Mrs. Hunter fluffs her hair a little and hopes she looks becoming.

[Mason is a typical New Yorker, well built, well preserved, dignified, and good-looking,—a solid man in every sense of the word.

Mason. [Meeting Ruth, shakes hands with her.] Miss Hunter.

Ruth. I am just going, Mr. Mason.

Mason. You must stay. I sent word to your house this morning to meet me here.

[Shakes hands with the others.

Ruth. I was here all night.

Mrs. Hunter. Will you have some tea? The children were hungry.

Mason. No, thank you. [To Blanche.] Isn't your husband here?

[Jordan, at a signal from Mrs. Hunter, removes the tea things.

Blanche. No, he left us at the door when we came back.

Mason. Didn't he get a letter from me this morning asking him to meet me here?

Blanche. Oh, yes, he did mention a letter at breakfast, but my thoughts were away. He has been very much worried lately over his affairs; he doesn't confide in me, but I see it. I wish you could advise him, Mr. Mason.

Mason. I cannot advise your husband if he won't ask my advice. I don't think we'll wait for Mr. Sterling.

[Gives chair to Mrs. Hunter.

Mrs. Hunter. I suppose you've come about all the horrid business. Why not just tell us how much our income is, and let all the details go. I really think the details are more than I can bear to-day.

Mason. That can be certainly as you wish; but I felt—as your business adviser—and besides I promised my old friend, your husband—it was my duty to let you know how matters stand with the least possible delay.

Mrs. Hunter. [Beginning to break down.] George! George!

[Ruth looks at her, furious, and bites her lips hard. Jessica is standing with her back toward them.

Mason. Well, then—

[He is interrupted by Mrs. Hunter, who sees Jessica.

Mrs. Hunter. Jess! How rude you are! Turn around this minute! [Jessica does not move.] What do you mean! Excuse me, Mr. Mason! Jess! Such disrespect to your father's will! Turn around! [Angry.] Do you hear me?

Jessica. [With her back still turned, her shoulders shaking, speaks in a voice broken with sobs.] Leave me alone! Leave me alone—

[She sits in a chair beside her and leans her arms upon its back and buries her face in her arms.

Blanche. [With her hand on her mother's arm.] Mother! Don't worry her!

Mrs. Hunter. Go on, please, Mr. Mason, and remember, spare us the details. What is our income?

Mason. Mrs. Hunter, there is no income.

Mrs. Hunter. [Quietly, not at all grasping what he means.] No income! How is our money—

Mason. I am sorry to say there is no money.

Mrs. Hunter. [Echoes weakly.] No money?

Mason. Not a penny!

Mrs. Hunter. [Realizing now what he means, cries out in a loud, hard, amazed voice.] What!

Blanche. [With her hand on her shoulder.] Mother!

Mrs. Hunter. I don't believe it!

Ruth. [To Mason.] My good friend, do you mean that literally—that my brother died without leaving any money behind him?

Mrs. Hunter. For his wife and family?

Mason. I mean just that.

Ruth. But how?

Mrs. Hunter. Yes, tell us the details—every one of them! You can't imagine the shock this is to me!

Mason. Hunter sent for me two days before he died, and told me things had gone badly with him last year, but it seemed impossible to retrench his expenses.

Ruth. Are you listening, Florence?

Mrs. Hunter. Yes, of course I am; your brother was a very extravagant man!

Mason. This year, with his third daughter coming out, there was need of more money than ever. He was harassed nearly to death with financial worries. [Ruth begins to cry softly. Mrs. Hunter gets angrier and angrier.] And finally, in sheer desperation, and trusting to the advice of the Storrings, he risked everything he had with them in the Consolidated Copper. The day after, he was taken ill. You know what happened. The Storrings, Hunter, and others were ruined absolutely; the next day Hunter died.

Ruth. Poor George! Why didn't he come to me; he must have known that everything I had was his!

Mason. He was too ill when the final blow came to realize it.

Mrs. Hunter. [Angry.] But his life insurance,—there was a big policy in my name.

Mason. He had been obliged to let that lapse.

Mrs. Hunter. You mean I haven't even my life insurance?

Mason. As I said, there is nothing, except this house, and that is—

Mrs. Hunter. [Rises indignantly and almost screams in angry hysterics.] Mortgaged, I presume! Oh, it's insulting! It's an indignity. It's—it's—Oh, well, it's just like my husband, there!

Blanche. Mother!

[Ruth rises, and, taking Mason's arm, leads him aside.

Mrs. Hunter. [To Blanche.] Oh, don't talk to me now! You always preferred your father, and now you're punished for it! He has wilfully left your mother and sisters paupers!

Blanche. How can you speak like that! Surely you know father must have suffered more than we could when he realized he was leaving nothing for you.

Jessica. Yes, and it was for us too that he lost all. It was our extravagance.

Mrs. Hunter. Hush! How dare you side against me, too?

Ruth. Florence—

Mrs. Hunter. Well, Ruth, what do you think of your brother now?

Blanche. [To her mother.] Don't!

Mason. By whom were the arrangements for to-day made?

Mrs. Hunter. My son-in-law had most pressing business, and his friend—

Blanche. The friend of all of us—

Mrs. Hunter. Yes, of course, Mr. Warden saw to everything.

Blanche. He will be here any moment!

Mason. When he comes, will you send him on to me, please?

Ruth. Yes.

Mason. Very well. Good-by. [Shakes hands with Blanche.] I am very sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news.

Mrs. Hunter. [Shaking hands with him.] Please overlook anything I may have said; at such a moment, with the loss of all my money—and my dear husband—I don't know what to say!

Mason. Naturally. [To the others.] Good-by. [To Ruth, who follows him.] I'll come to see you in the morning.

[As they shake hands.

Ruth. And I can then tell you what I settle here now. [Mason goes out Left.] Florence, I'm very sorry—

[Interrupted.

Mrs. Hunter. Oh! You! Sorry!

Ruth. Yes, very, very sorry,—first, that I spoke as I did just now.

Mrs. Hunter. It's too late to be sorry for that now.

Ruth. No, it isn't, and I'll prove to you I mean it. Come, we'll talk things over.

Mrs. Hunter. Go away! I don't want you to prove anything to me! [Mrs. Hunter and Clara sit side by side on the sofa. Blanche and Jessica are in chairs near the table. Ruth sits beside Blanche. Mrs. Hunter has something the manner of porcupines and shows a set determination to accept nothing by way of comfort or expedient. Blanche looks hopeful and ready to take the helm for the family. Jessica will back up Blanche.] My happiness in this world is over. What have I to live for?

Ruth. Your children!

Mrs. Hunter. Beggars like myself!

Blanche. But your children will work for you.

Clara. Work! I see myself.

Ruth. So do I.

Mrs. Hunter. My children work! Don't be absurd!

Jessica. It is not absurd! I can certainly earn my own living somehow and so can Clara.

Clara. Doing what, I should like to know! I see myself!

Blanche. Jess is right. I'll take care of this family—father always said I was "his own child." I'll do my best to take his place.

Ruth. I will gladly give Jessica a home.

Mrs. Hunter. [Whimpers.] You'd rob me of my children, too!

Jessica. Thank you, Aunt Ruth, but I must stay with mother and be Blanche's right-hand man!

Clara. I might go on the stage.

Mrs. Hunter. My dear, smart people don't any more.

Clara. I'd like to be a sort of Anna Held.

Jessica. I don't see why I couldn't learn typewriting, Blanche?

Mrs. Hunter. Huh! Why, you could never even learn to play the piano; I don't think you'd be much good at typewriting.

Clara. You want to be a typewriter, because in the papers they always have an old gentleman taking them to theatres and supper! No, sir, if there is to be any "old man's darling" in this family, I'll be it!

Ruth. [Dryly.] You'll have to learn to spell correctly first!

Clara. [Superciliously.] Humph!

Jessica. There are lots of ways nowadays for women to earn their living.

Ruth. Yes, typewriting we will consider.

Mrs. Hunter. Never!

[No one pays any attention to her except Clara, who agrees with her.

Ruth. Jess, you learned enough to teach, didn't you?—even at that fashionable school your mother sent you to?

Jessica. Oh, yes, I think I could teach.

Mrs. Hunter. Never!

[Still no one pays any attention except Clara who again agrees with her.

Clara. No, indeed! I wouldn't teach!

Blanche. If we only knew some nice elderly woman who wanted a companion, Jess would be a godsend.

Clara. If she was a nice old lady with lots of money and delicate health, I wouldn't mind that position myself.

Ruth. Clara, you seem to take this matter as a supreme joke!

Mrs. Hunter. [With mock humility.] May I speak? [She waits. All turn to her. A moment's, silence.] May I speak?

Ruth. Yes, yes. Go on, Florence; don't you see we're listening?

Mrs. Hunter. I didn't know! I've been so completely ignored in this entire conversation. But there is one thing for the girls—the easiest possible way for them to earn their living—which you don't seem for a moment to have thought of!

[She waits with a smile of coming triumph on her face.

Ruth. Nursing!

Mrs. Hunter. [Disgusted.] No!

Clara. Manicuring?

Mrs. Hunter. Darling!

Blanche. Designing dresses and hats?

Mrs. Hunter. No!

Jessica. Book-keeping?

Mrs. Hunter. No.

Ruth. Then what in the world is it?

Mrs. Hunter. Marriage!

Clara. Oh, of course!

Ruth. Humph!

[Jessica and Blanche exchange glances.

Mrs. Hunter. That young Mr. Trotter would be a fine catch for Jess.

Jessica. Who loathes him!

Mrs. Hunter. Don't be old-fashioned! He's very nice.

Ruth. A little cad, trying to get into society—nice occupation for a man!

Jessica. Mother, you can't be serious.

Clara. Why wouldn't he do for me?

Ruth. He would! The very thing!

Mrs. Hunter. We'll see, darling; I think Europe is the place for you. I don't believe all the titles are gobbled up yet.

Ruth. Jess, I might get you some women friends of mine, to whom you could go mornings and answer their letters.

Mrs. Hunter. I should not allow my daughter to go in that capacity to the house of any woman who had refused to call on her mother, which is the way most of your friends have treated me.

Ruth. Do you realize, Florence, this is a question of bread and butter, a practical suggestion of life, which has nothing whatever to do with the society columns of the daily papers?