HELEN. I'm afraid you are.

WILLIAM. Oh!

HELEN. There's only mother.

MRS. CROSBY (_rising and moving to_ HELEN'S _side in front of table_
R.). Oh, my dear, forgive me. Your mother should have been here
to-night.

HELEN. No, my mother--Mrs. Crosby--mother doesn't go out--she'd be
unhappy here, and you'd be uncomfortable if she came. You'll find her
trying sometimes, you'll think she's common. Oh, don't misunderstand me.
She's the most wonderful mother in the world. And she's--

MRS. CROSBY. Suppose, my dear, that we take your mother for granted.
(_She crosses to a position between_ WILLIAM _and_ HELEN.) Take us as
you find us and we will try to be happy.

(_Enter_ CROSBY _from door_ L. _He is a fine-looking man of about sixty,
with a pleasant personality, a good deal of charm and that masterful
self-possession which sometimes marks the man of affairs. It is always
evident that the most delightful intimacy exists between himself and his
wife._)

MRS. CROSBY. Well, Roscoe?

CROSBY (_moves to_ L.C.). Welcome, my dear. (HELEN _crosses to him and
he takes her in his arms_.)