MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Closing the door left open by_ PETER, _shutting out
the sound of his voice_.] Well, Doctor ... [_She pauses for a moment to
catch her breath and wipe her eyes_.] I suppose you've told him he's got
to die.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Eyeing_ MRS. BATHOLOMMEY _with disfavour_.] Who's got to
die?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Why, Mr. Grimm, of course.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Amazed_.] Does the whole damned town know it?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Oh!

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Easy, Doctor. You consulted Mr. Grimm's lawyer and
_his_ wife told _my_ wife.

DR. MACPHERSON. He gabbed, eh? Hang the professional man who tells things
to his wife.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor!

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [_With solicitude_.] I greatly grieve to hear that
Mr. Grimm has an incurable malady. His heart, I understand. [_Shakes his
head._

DR. MACPHERSON. He's not to be told. Is that clear? He may die in twenty
minutes--may outlive us all--probably will.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Pointing to_ REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY.] It seems to me,