that was the lady's fault.

(The last of the adventurers draws nigh, carolling a French song as he
comes.)

COADE. Dearth's voice. He sounds quite merry!

JOANNA (protecting). Alice, you poor thing.

PURDIE. This is going to be horrible.

(A clear-eyed man of lusty gait comes in.)

DEARTH. I am sorry to bounce in on you in this way, but really I have
an excuse. I am a painter of sorts, and . . .

(He sees he has brought some strange discomfort here.)

MRS. COADE. I must say, Mr. Dearth, I am delighted to see you looking
so well. Like a new man, isn't he?

(No one dares to answer.)

DEARTH. I am certainly very well, if you care to know. But did I tell
you my name?

JOANNA (for some one has to speak). No, but--but we have an instinct
in this house.

DEARTH. Well, it doesn't matter. Here is the situation; my daughter