MARSH.
It promises to be a chilly eve after a cloudy morning.

PENROSE
(with a shiver).
More snow and bitter weather!

MARSH
(looking out the window).
Nay, not so bitter. The window-panes are clear and unfrosted. The
twilight gathers quickly. The streets are gray, and there's scarce a
gleam in the darkness of the harbor.

PENROSE
(as Marsh leaves window for fire).
Not e'en a light in the rigging o' Francis Rotch's ships? The sailors
must be supping at the taverns. They're weary now of staying
harborbound. There'll be rejoicing when the tax is paid, and the stiff-
necked Yankees bring the tea to land.

MARSH.
There be some who call themselves patriots, and swear they'll never pay
it.

PENROSE
(sipping).
Not pay it? They'll defy us? Pooh! We could bring them to time with a
twist of the wrist did we but wish to! (Looking with approval at his
own apparel.) A mere handful of men with scarcely any lace for their