HE. I can't say that I do. It's so infernally big. But Maria thinks I ought to have it. (Explanatorily)—Maria is—
SHE. (gently) She's—the one who is interested in furnaces. I understand. I saw her with you at the real-estate office yesterday. Well—furnaces are necessary, I suppose. (There is a pause, which she breaks suddenly.) Do you see that bee?
HE. A bee?
He follows her gaze up to a cluster of blossoms.
SHE. Yes—there! (Affectionately)—The rascal! There he goes.
Their eyes follow the flight of the bee across the orchard. There is a silence. Alone together beneath the blossoms, a spell seems to have fallen upon them. She tries to think of something to say—and at last succeeds.
SHE. Have you heard the story of the people who used to live here?
HE. No; why?
SHE. The agent was telling us. It's quite romantic—and rather sad. You see, the man that built this house was in love with a girl. He was building it for her—as a surprise. But he had neglected to mention to her that he was in love with her. And so, in pique, she married another man, though she was really in love with him. The news came just when he had finished the house. He shut it up for a year or two, but eventually married some one else, and they lived I here for ten years—most unhappily. Then they went abroad, and the house was sold. It was bought, curiously enough, by the husband of the girl he had been in love with. They lived here till they died-hating each other to the end, the agent says.
HE. It gives me the shivers. To think of that house, haunted by the memories of wasted love! Which of us, I wonder, will have to live in it? I don't want to.