Pierre. But, Marie, Toinette never does a thing but scold us when she's around.
Marie. She tells us beautiful fairy stories sometimes.
Marc. That's just it—"sometimes." You don't catch her doing it unless she wants to.
Pierre. And she's just a regular old spoil-sport.
Marc. Oh, bother about Toinette. She'll come back a good deal sooner than we want her. Can't you talk about anything else?
Marie [doubtfully]. Well, it is pleasanter when she isn't here, I know.
Pierre. Of course it is.
Marie. But I hope she's having a good time somewhere else.
[Throughout this conversation Toinette listens,
horrified at first, then angry, then
distressed; at one moment about to exclaim,
then starting forward to strike one
of the boys, and at last covering her face
with her hands and crying. Enter Mother.
Mother [anxiously]. Not a trace can I see of her. Children, have you eaten your porridge? Marie, take Jeannette to bed. [Exeunt Marie and Jeannette.] Boys, go out and cut some wood for our Christmas fire. [Exeunt boys.] There will be no Christmas in this house unless Toinette comes back soon. [Sits down in the rocker to warm herself.] Dear, dear, she is a good girl, and a clever girl, but she is a sore puzzle to me. What can make her so thoughtless and careless and full of discontent? Why, even little Marie is a greater help to me than she is.