Rachel: I didn’t think it was quite fair not to tell you. It—it seemed, well, like eavesdropping.
Strong: Don’t worry about it. Nonsense!
Rachel: I’m glad—I want to thank you for what you did for Tom. He needs you, and will need you. You’ll help him?
Strong: (Thoughtfully): Rachel, each one—has his own little battles. I’ll do what I can. After all, an outsider doesn’t help much.
Rachel: But friendship—just friendship—helps.
Strong: Yes. (A silence). Rachel, do you hear anything encouraging from the schools? Any hope for you yet?
Rachel: No, nor ever will be. I know that now. There’s no more chance for me than there is for Tom,—or than there was for you—or for any of us with dark skins. It’s lucky for me that I love to keep house, and cook, and sew. I’ll never get anything else. Ma dear’s sewing, the little work Tom has been able to get, and the little sewing I sometimes get to do—keep us from the poorhouse. We live. According to your philosophy, I suppose, make the best of it—it might be worse.
Strong (Quietly): You don’t want to get morbid over these things, you know.
Rachel (Scornfully): That’s it. If you see things as they are, you’re either pessimistic or morbid.
Strong: In the long run, do you believe, that attitude of mind—will be—beneficial to you? I’m ten years older than you. I tried your way. I know. Mine is the only sane one. (Goes over to her slowly; deliberately puts his hands on her hair, and tips her head back. He looks down into her face quietly without saying anything).