Sit down, mother. It’s very jolly here.
Thank you, Walter. How many years since I’ve enjoyed a real fire, like this!
Oh, there isn’t enough wood. Just a minute—(He goes out)
You look tired.
I’m all right, dear.
No you’re not. Why won’t you tell me?
But Alice, there’s nothing to tell. I do feel a little tired, but then, I shall be all right in the morning.
I wish—(Walter enters with more wood)
Well, Alice, are you still thinking about that dance?
Why no, I’d forgotten all about it. Who could dance in such a rain? It would make the music seem artificial. I’m getting tired of boys, too. They don’t really feel things—like rain, and fire.
What’s that noise,—Harold?
No. It’s the men in the bar room.
I’m sure it’s Harold.
I’ll go see. (She goes out)
I must be an awful coward—
Why, what do you mean?
I mean that when I really want something, and ought to say so, I go along without saying it. I don’t mean that I’m really afraid to say it, but I always feel somehow that other people ought to know what I want, and save me the trouble of asking it. No, not trouble exactly—but you know what I mean.
Yes, Walter, I’m afraid I know exactly what you mean. Lots of us are cursed with the same instinct. I am, and sometimes I believe your father is, too. It ought to be that when one sees a thing clearly in his own mind, and knows it is best, others—at least those near to him—should somehow be aware of it. But they usually are not.