Rachel: Oh! well, perhaps we’re wrong about Mary—I hope we are. (Sighs). Anyway, let’s forget it. Tommy guess what I’ve got. (Rises, goes out into entryway swiftly, and returns holding up a small bag). Ma dear treated. Guess!
Tom: Ma, you’re a thoroughbred. Well, let’s see—it’s—a dozen dill pickles?
Rachel: Oh! stop fooling.
Tom: I’m not. Tripe?
Rachel: Silly!
Tom: Hog’s jowl?
Rachel: Ugh! Give it up—quarter-back.
Tom: Pig’s feet?
Rachel (In pretended disgust): Oh! Ma dear—send him from the table. It’s CANDY!
Tom: Candy? Funny, I never thought of that! And I was just about to say some nice, delicious chitlings. Candy! Well! Well! (Rachel disdainfully carries the candy to her mother, returns to her own seat with the bag and helps herself. She ignores Tom).