[Bursts out crying.

Barlow. Hicks?

Dorothy. Jennie, Hicks isn't Bob. His name--is George.

Yardsley (in a despairing rage). Hicks be--

Dorothy. Mr. Yardsley!

Yardsley (pulling himself together again). Bobbed. Hicks be Bobbed.
That's what I was going to say.

Dorothy. What on earth does this all mean? I must have an
explanation, Jennie. What have you to say for yourself?

Jennie. Why, I--

Yardsley. I tell you it isn't true. She's made it up out of whole
cloth.

Barlow. What isn't true? She hasn't said anything yet.

Yardsley (desperately). I refer to what she's going to say. I'm a--
a--I'm a mind-reader, and I see it all as plain as day.

Dorothy. I can best judge of the truth of Jennie's words when she
has spoken them, Mr. Yardsley. Jennie, you may explain, if you can.
What do you mean by Hicks killing Mr. Yardsley, and why do you
presume to call Mr. Yardsley by his first name?

Yardsley (aside). Heigho! My goose is cooked.

Barlow. I fancy you wish you had taken that walk I suggested now.

Yardsley. You always were a good deal of a fancier.

Jennie. I hardly knows how to begin, Miss Dorothy. I--I'm so
flabbergasted by all that's happened this afternoon, mum, that I
can't get my thoughts straight, mum.

Dorothy. Never mind getting your thoughts straight, Jennie. I do
not want fiction. I want the truth.

Jennie. Well, mum, when a fine gentleman like Mr. Yardsley asks--

Yardsley. I tell you it isn't so.

Jennie. Indeed he did, mum.

Dorothy (impatiently). Did what?

Jennie. Axed me to marry him, mum.

Dorothy. Mr. Yardsley--asked--you--to--to marry him? [Barlow
whistles.

Jennie (bursting into tears again). Yes, mum, he did, mum, right
here in this room. He got down on his knees to me on that Proossian
rug before the sofa, mum. I was standin' behind the sofa, havin'
just come in to tell him as how you'd be down shortly. He was
standin' before the lookin'-glass lookin' at himself, an' when I come
in he turns around and goes down on his knees and says such an
importunity may not occur again, mum; I've loved you very long; and
then he recited some pottery, mum, and said would I be his wife.

Yardsley (desperately). Let me explain.

Dorothy. Wait, Mr. Yardsley; your turn will come in a moment.

Barlow. Yes, it'll be here, my boy; don't fret about that. Take all
the time you need to make it a good one. Gad, if this doesn't strain
your imaginat