I beg your pardon, Mr. McComas:
don't mind us.
DOLLY (in conciliation). We mean well.
PHILIP. Shut up, both.
(Dolly holds her lips. McComas takes a chair from the luncheon
table; places it between the little table and the garden seat with Dolly
on his right and Philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the
air of a man about to begin a long communication. The Clandons match
him expectantly.)
McCOMAS. Ahem! Your father---
DOLLY (interrupting). How old is he?
PHILIP. Sh!
MRS. CLANDON (softly). Dear Dolly: don't let us interrupt Mr.
McComas.
McCOMAS (emphatically). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (To
Dolly.) Your father is fifty-seven.
DOLLY (with a bound, startled and excited). Fifty-seven! Where does
he live?
MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dolly, Dolly!
McCOMAS (stopping her). Let me answer that, Mrs. Clandon. The
answer will surprise you considerably. He lives in this town. (Mrs.
Clandon rises. She and Gloria look at one another in the greatest
consternation.)
DOLLY (with conviction). I knew it! Phil: Chalkstones is our
father.
McCOMAS. Chalkstones!
DOLLY. Oh, Crampstones, or whatever it is. He said I was like his
mother. I knew he must mean his daughter.
PHILIP (very seriously). Mr. McComas: I desire to consider your
feelings in every possible way: but I warn you that if you stretch the
long arm of coincidence to the length of telling me that Mr.
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