Celia. (Coming back C.) Now, what should I do? My heroic Wobbles--my beloved Colonel Smith will die--in Somaliland. (Going to magazine table, gets calendar, comes down C. to Aunt Ida and runs over leaves.) Now, let me see when--when will he die? (Stop's at a leaf.) On October 11th. There, now, it is all arranged. (She replaces calendar on table.) After eight brief months of the most perfect understanding, I shall lose--Wobbles. After eight months, I'll write out a notice of his death and you will send it to the Times.
Aunt Ida. (Slowly) To The Times? I?
Celia. Yes.
Aunt Ida. Never. (Sits R. of table L.)
Celia. What? Not if I promise to go with you to Chicago? (Aunt Ida shakes her head.) And you know how much you always wanted me to do that. Oh, yes, you will, Aunt Ida. (Goes to her.) I'll buy the tickets to-morrow. You shall have the very nicest cabin on the whole ship. On October 11th we will kill off the Colonel and the very next day we will sail away, we'll sail away. (Crosses R. gayly.)
Aunt Ida. I tell you, I will not help you. It's too immoral.
Celia. Oh, very well, then. Have I, or have I not, proved now that I can help myself?
Aunt Ida. (Rising and coming C. Half angry, half laughing) Are you, or are you not, ashamed of yourself, Celia Faraday?
Celia. Ashamed? I? Why, no, not the least little bit in the world. I don't believe I was ever so happy in all my life.
Aunt Ida. Oh, oh!