Mrs. Tarrant, pacifically: "Very well, dear; Lena will attend to them."
Mr. Tarrant, fretfully, raising himself to the barrel and dangling his legs against the sides: "I don't see why it is that we had such good luck with the packing, from the other end, and everything goes like the dickens here. Why, down there we just slipped them into the boxes, and it went like nothing at all."
Mrs. Tarrant, wearily: "Yes—but Lena was there."
Mr. Tarrant: "Oh, Lena! She only did what you told her. We did the planning."
Mrs. Tarrant, persistently: "Yes, but I'm beginning to think that's the hardest part—to do the things. I don't see that planning accomplishes so much."
Mr. Tarrant, gloomily: "It's supposed to."
Mrs. Tarrant, with the air of one who has lived through her illusions: "I know. That article in the magazine about moving said so; but in that article everything happened just as they planned, and nothing does here."
She blows her nose sadly.
Mr. Tarrant gets down from the barrel, and crossing to her, puts an arm around her shoulder. They walk into the drawing-room slowly. He begins soothingly: "Poor little girl, you're all tired out. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll let Lena tell the men where to put the things when they come, and we'll—"
The light in the room fades slowly out. It is almost perfectly dark. Mrs. Tarrant screams. Mr. Tarrant gasps: "What the devil—"
Mrs. Tarrant: "Oh, they took them! They came and took them, after all! Isn't that horrid!"
Mr. Tarrant, fiercely: "I'll take them! I'll—Here, let's light the gas."
He scratches a match from his pocket and applies it to a gas-tip in the chandelier. There is no result. He tries another. It will not light. Mrs. Tarrant giggles hysterically and explains: "There won't be any gas till eight o'clock, dear—it leaks somewhere. The janitor told me about it."
Mr. Tarrant, with portentous calm: "I will see the electric-light company to-morrow. Elizabeth, put on your hat and come out with me. We shall go mad if we stay in this place any longer. If necessary, we will walk the streets in the rain till dinner-time, and then we will go and have something to eat in a Christian place. Perhaps there will be music there. At least it will be lighted!"
Mrs. Tarrant, submissively: "Very well, dear. Can you scratch a match while I see if my hat is all right?"
He lights a match and holds it over her head while she pins on her hat before the glass door of the bookcase. As he lights a second, to allow her to finish, she catches sight of the group of ornaments in the corner and points to them apologetically: "If the men do get here early, Dick, they'll begin here, and these had better be with the others, I think."
Mr. Tarrant, remonstrating: "Elizabeth, I have sworn not to touch those things again!"
Mrs. Tarrant, wearily: "Oh, well, if you don't want to help—" She takes the Wagner and the Victory under either arm and passes into the library.
Mr. Tarrant, philosophically: "Oh, yes, I'll help." He picks up the Dresden jug and the tall green vase and follows her through the darkness to the sideboard.
Mrs. Tarrant, with a sigh: "There! I'm all ready! Come on, Dick." She passes into the hall from the library and, disappears. Through the darkness his voice is heard from the rear: "Hello! Please ask the janitor to step—Oh, it is you? Well, I'm going out now, janitor, and will you please open the door for the men when they come with the van? What? . . . Oh, heavens! I don't know; they ought to have been here at nine. Tell 'em so. . . . Yes, sign, please. And if the maid comes, let her in. . . . Lena—a Swedish girl—I don't know her last name; it doesn't matter—she's the one. . . . Lord! yes, I'll take the responsibility. If she's Lena, and cross-eyed a little, she'll do. . . . No, indeed, I'll not leave my key with the boy. Where's my second key? . . . Well, is that my fault? {{..}} Oh, I don't care where they put 'em—anywhere! . . . Anywhere, I said. . . . I can't tell when I will be back—late, I should say. . . . Not Parrot—Tarrant. . . . Yes. Good-by."
The hall door closes.
