I said marriages were made in Heaven.
A VOICE. Luckily, they don't last there.
(_Greatly startled, they look around, and perceive presently in the
mirror over the mantelpiece the apparition of a figure which they seem
dimly to recognise. A tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary type, with
long side-whiskers, and dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, has
taken up his position to one side of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass
in eye, with folded arms resting on the mantel-slab and a stylish hat in
one hand, be gazes upon the assembled family with quizzical
benevolence_.)
MRS. R. (_placidly_). What, is that you, Thomas?
THOMAS (_with the fashionable lisp of the fifties, always substituting
'th' for 's'_). How do you do, Susan?
(_There follows a pause, broken courageously by Mrs. James_.)
LAURA. Are _you_ my Father?
THOMAS. I don't know. Who are _you_? Who are all of you?
LAURA. Perhaps I had better explain. This is our dear Mother: her you
recognise. You are her husband; we are your daughters. This is Martha,
this is Julia, and I'm Laura.
THOMAS. Is this true, Susan? Are these our progeny?
MRS. R. Yes--that is--yes, Thomas.
THOMAS. I should not have known it. They all look so much older.
LAURA. Than when you left us? Naturally!
THOMAS. Than _me_> I meant. But you all seem flourishing.
LAURA. Because we lived longer. Papa, when did you die?
JULIA. Oh! Laura!
THOMAS. I don't know, child.
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