Dean (looking at her suit-case). You're not going just as I'm coming? I'd hoped that we'd be such friends.
Hilda. I'm going to my cousin's in New York—to stay—forever, I guess.
Dean (anxiously). What will you do there?
Hilda (with enthusiasm). Something worth while. I'll be an actress, or a settlement-worker, or a suffragette—I don't care what.
Dean. And your parents?
Hilda. Hush! They do not know that I'm going. (Goes to door l. and listens, tiptoes back. Speaks hurriedly.) My father is a collector of antiques. I've been brought up in the stifled atmosphere of tradition. I've never had anything that wasn't at least a thousand years old, or a friend that didn't belong to a family as ancient as that of Noah. I'm sick of it——
Dean. But, my dear girl, you can't——
Hilda (excitedly). Listen! Now father is planning to marry me to a man twice my age, who cares nothing for me, except as a means of acquiring the teapot—that is, all that the teapot stands for: a family-tree, prestige, that sort of thing.
Dean (incredulously). The teapot?