Aunt P. But, Amos, I’m an old woman now.
Amos. And I’m an old man. I’m sixty.
Aunt P. I’m sure that isn’t old! For a man, I mean.
Amos. Then fifty-eight isn’t old—for a woman. Polly, I’ve everything but the thing I want most. I’ve no real home. I’m lonesome, dear. I’ve been lonesome for forty years—forty years that the locusts have eaten. Must I always be lonely, Polly?
Aunt P. But think what people would say, Amos.
Amos. I don’t care what people say, Polly. I only care for you, and to know that you care. And you do care, Polly, I know. Else why have you kept single all these years? Besides, if you didn’t care, you’d have said no and you haven’t said it. You’ve fenced. Polly, you did care. Don’t you care any longer? Tell me!
Aunt P. Y-yes, Amos, I did care.
Amos. And you’ve got over it? You no longer care? Ah, you can’t say no. Say yes, Polly. Forty years is a long while to wait for an answer.
Aunt P. That’s it, Amos, those forty years. It looks so ridiculous.
Amos. Ridiculous, nothing! I’m waiting to hear that yes, Polly. And I shan’t go home till I hear it.