[With despairing passion.] Girl, I don't care if it costs me everything …
[He embraces her and kisses her again and again.
ROSE
[Suddenly in extreme terror.] For the love o' … some one's comin', Mr. Flamm!
FLAMM in consternation, jumps up and disappears behind a bush.
ROSE gets up hastily, straightens her hair and her dress and looks anxiously about her. As no one appears she takes up the hoe and begins to weed the potato patch. After a while there approaches, unnoticed by her, the machinist ARTHUR STRECKMANN dressed in his Sunday coat. He is what would generally be called a handsome man—large, broad-shouldered, his whole demeanour full of self-importance. He has a blond beard that extends far down his chest. His garments, from his jauntily worn huntsman's hat to his highly polished boots, his walking coat and his embroidered waistcoat, are faultless and serve to show, in connection with his carriage, that STRECKMANN not only thinks very well of himself but is scrupulously careful of his person and quite conscious of his unusual good looks.
STRECKMANN
[As though but now becoming conscious of ROSE'S presence, in an affectedly well-modulated voice.] Good day, Rosie.
ROSE
[Turns frightened.] Good day, Streckmann. [In an uncertain voice] Why, where did you come from? From church?