ROBERT. (kissing her—with a smile) There! It’s better now, dear, thank you. (She cuddles up close against him. There is a pause during which each of them looks out seaward) (Finally ROBERT turns to her tenderly) Would you like Dada to go away?—far, far away?
MARY. (tearfully) No! No! No, Dada, no!
ROBERT. Don’t you like Uncle Andy—the man that came yesterday—not the old man with the white mustache—the other?
MARY. Mary loves Dada.
ROBERT. (with fierce determination) He won’t go away, baby. He was only joking. He couldn’t leave his little Mary. (He presses the child in his arms).
MARY. (with an exclamation of pain) Oh! Hurt!
ROBERT. I’m sorry, little girl. (He lifts her down to the grass) Go play with Dolly, that’s a good girl; and be careful to keep in the shade. (She reluctantly leaves him and takes up her doll again. A moment later she points down the hill to the left).
MARY. Mans, Dada.
ROBERT. (looking that way) It’s your Uncle Andy. (A moment later ANDREW comes up from the left, whistling cheerfully. He has changed but little in appearance, except for the fact that his face has been deeply bronzed by his years in the tropics; but there is a decided change in his manner. The old easy-going good-nature seems to have been partly lost in a breezy, business-like briskness of voice and gesture. There is an authoritative note in his speech as though he were accustomed to give orders and have them obeyed as a matter of course. He is dressed in the simple blue uniform and cap of a merchant ship’s officer).
ANDREW. Here you are, eh?