Tom (Entering and smiling): Good-morning, “Merry Sunshine”! Have you, perhaps, been taking a—er—prolonged draught of that very delightful beverage—vinegar? (Rachel, with a knife in her hand, looks up unsmiling. In pretended fright) I take it all back, I’m sure. May I request, humbly, that before I press my chaste, morning salute upon your forbidding lips, that you—that you—that you—er—in some way rid yourself of that—er—knife? (Bows as Rachel puts it down). I thank you. (He comes to her and tips her head back; gently) What’s the matter with my little Sis?
Rachel (Her face softening): Tommy dear, don’t mind me. I’m getting wicked, I guess. At present I feel just like—— like curdled milk. Once upon a time, I used to have quite a nice disposition, didn’t I, Tommy?
Tom (Smiling): Did you, indeed! I’m not going to flatter you. Well, brace yourself, old lady. Ready, One! Two! Three! Go! (Kisses her, then puts his hands on either side of her face, and raising it, looks down into it). You’re a pretty, decent little sister, Sis, that’s what T. Loving thinks about it; and he knows a thing or two. (Abruptly looking around) Has the paper come yet?
Rachel: I haven’t looked, it must have, though, by this time. (Tom, hands in his pockets, goes into the vestibule. He whistles. The outer door opens and closes, and presently he saunters back, newspaper in hand. He lounges carelessly in the arm-chair and looks at Rachel).
Tom: May T. Loving be of any service to you?
Rachel: Service! How?
Tom: May he run, say, any errands, set the table, cook the breakfast? Anything?
Rachel (Watching the lazy figure): You look like working.
Tom (Grinning): It’s at least—polite—to offer.
Rachel: You can’t do anything; I don’t trust you to do it right. You may just sit there, and read your paper—and try to behave yourself.