Rachel: Please, Ma dear, please!
Mrs. Loving (Smiling): Very well, dearie, I won’t say it any more. (A pause). By the way,—how—does Tom strike you, these days?
Rachel (Avoiding her mother’s eye): The same old, bantering, cheerful Tom. Why?
Mrs. Loving: I know he’s all that, dearie, but it isn’t possible for him to be really cheerful. (Pauses; goes on wistfully) When you are little, we mothers can kiss away all the trouble, but when you grow up—and go out—into the world—and get hurt—we are helpless. There is nothing we can do.
Rachel: Don’t worry about Tom, Ma dear, he’s game. He doesn’t show the white feather.
Mrs. Loving: Did you see him, when he came in, last night?
Rachel: Yes.
Mrs. Loving: Had he had—any luck?
Rachel: No. (Firmly) Ma dear, we may as well face it—it’s hopeless, I’m afraid.
Mrs. Loving: I’m afraid—you are right. (Shakes her head sadly) Well, I’ll go and see how Jimmy has left things and wake up Tom, if he isn’t awake yet. It’s the waking up in the mornings that’s hard. (Goes limping out rear door. Rachel frowns as she continues going back and forth between the kitchenette and the table. Presently Tom appears in the door at the rear. He watches Rachel several moments before he speaks or enters. Rachel looks grim enough).