But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. In the path shall you grow steadfast and contented.
It doesn’t matter!
Not at all. And when you have become reasonable and grateful, I shall return and speak further with you. I shall devise for you such sacrifice as shall make the saints but as little children. Au revoir.
(He turns away. The clock of St. Sulpice tones the half hour. The watchmaker listens to it with open mouth, and trembling violently, darts through the door of his shop.)
MARY, his wife
The scene shows a hotel “parlor” in the White Mountains. Beneath the flashy ugliness of its modern wall paper and upholstery, a certain refinement persists from an older generation. The room itself is well proportioned, with a very good hearth. The parlor might once have been the ball room in a squire’s mansion.
It is about seven o’clock of an August evening, the room feebly lighted by a flickering acetylene burner. One feels the commencement of rain. A door to the rear opens and the Everitts enter, the younger children first.
She didn’t give me any toast. I want some toast!
A rotten supper!
Never mind, Harold, you had two cups of that beautiful milk.
Of course it was rotten. Everything’s second rate here. Ugh! what a musty smell!
I told father we ought to go ahead. The car could have done another six miles easily. And we’d have reached the Mountain Inn.
I’m sure there’s a dance there to-night!
The car could not have done the six miles. We were lucky to make that last hill. You might have had to walk the whole way.
Well, we always start too soon or too late. For goodness sake let’s at least have some light. There’s no use having it as dark inside as out. (Everitt goes about lighting all the burners)
Hear the rain, rain, rain!