PHONSIE: Say, mommer, am I dying? (Loud and toughly.)
GLADYS: (Sadly.) I am afraid not, my treasure.
PHONSIE: Why not, mommer?
GLADYS: You are too great a pest to die, sweetheart.
PHONSIE: But the good always die young, don't they, mommer?
GLADYS: (Still sewing.) But you were not speaking about the good—you were speaking of yourself, my precious.
PHONSIE: Ain't I good, mommer, don't you think?
GLADYS: (Business.) Oh, I don't dare to think!!!! (Moves up stage.)
PHONSIE: Don't think if it hurts you, mommer.
GLADYS: (At dresser.) But come, it is time for your medicine.
(Shows enormous pill.)