Mrs. Dale. Well—I went back there the other day. The village is immensely improved. There’s a new hotel with gas-fires, and a trolley in the main street; and the garden has been turned into a public park, where excursionists sit on cast-iron benches admiring the statue of an Abolitionist.
Ventnor. An Abolitionist—how appropriate!
Mrs. Dale. And the man who sold the garden has made a fortune that he doesn’t know how to spend—
Ventnor (rising impulsively). Helen, (he approaches and lays his hand on her letters), let’s sacrifice our fortune and keep the excursionists out!
Mrs. Dale (with a responsive movement). Paul, do you really mean it?
Ventnor (gayly). Mean it? Why, I feel like a landed proprietor already! It’s more than a garden—it’s a park.
Mrs. Dale. It’s more than a park, it’s a world—as long as we keep it to ourselves!
Ventnor. Ah, yes—even the pyramids look small when one sees a Cook’s tourist on top of them! (He takes the key from the table, unlocks the cabinet and brings out his letters, which he lays beside hers.) Shall we burn the key to our garden?
Mrs. Dale. Ah, then it will indeed be boundless! (Watching him while he throws the letters into the fire.)
Ventnor (turning back to her with a half-sad smile). But not too big for us to find each other in?