This beastly behavior of Henderson's has
knocked me out.
Perkins. What's the matter with Henderson?
Mrs. Perkins. He hasn't withdrawn, has he?
Yardsley. That's just what he has done. He sent me word this
morning.
Mrs. Perkins. But what excuse does he offer? At the last moment,
too!
Yardsley. None at all--absolutely. There was some airy persiflage
in his note about having to go to Boston at six o'clock.
Grandmother's sick or something. He writes so badly I couldn't make
out whether she was rich or sick. I fancy it's a little of both.
Possibly if she wasn't rich he wouldn't care so much when she fell
ill. That's the trouble with these New-Englanders, anyhow--they've
always got grandmothers to fall down at crucial moments. Next time I
go into this sort of thing it'll be with a crowd without known
ancestors.
Perkins. 'Tisn't Chet's fault, though. You don't suspect him of
having poisoned his grandmother just to get out of playing, do you?
Mrs. Perkins. Oh, Thaddeus, do be serious!
Perkins. I was never more so, my dear. Poisoning one's grandmother
is no light crime.
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