CURTIS—[Taking one of her hands and patting it.] Nonsense!
MARTHA—[Shaking her head and smiling with a touch of sadness.] No. I feel it.
CURTIS—[Puts his arms around her protectingly.] Nonsense! You're not the sort that ever grows old.
MARTHA—[Nestling up to him.] I'm afraid we're all that sort, dear. Even you. [She touches the white hair about his temples playfully.] Circumstantial evidence. I'll have to dye it when you're asleep some time—and then nobody'll know.
CURTIS—[Looking at her.] You haven't any silver threads. [Jokingly.] Am I to suspect—?
MARTHA—No, I don't. Honest, cross my heart, I wouldn't even conceal that from you, if I did. But gray hairs prove nothing. I am actually older than you, don't forget.
CURTIS—One whole year! That's frightful, isn't it?
MARTHA—I'm a woman, remember; so that one means at least six. Ugh! Let's not talk about it. Do you know, it really fills me with a queer panic sometimes?
CURTIS—[Squeezing her.] Silly girl!
MARTHA—[Snuggling close to him.] Will you always love me—even when I'm old and ugly and feeble and you're still young and strong and handsome?