WILLIE (looking up). You're saving one.
MAGGIE (caught in an act of sentiment and apologetically). I thought I'd press it in my Bible for a keepsake, Will. I'm not beyond liking to be reminded of this day.
(She looks at screen and yawns.)
Lord, I'm tired. I reckon I'll leave those pots till morning. It's a slackish way of starting, but I don't get married every day.
WILLIE (industrious at his slate). No.
MAGGIE. I'm for my bed. You finish that copy before you come.
WILLIE. Yes, Maggie.
(Exit MAGGIE to bedroom, with the flower. She closes door. WILL copies, repeats letters and words as he writes them slowly, finishes, then rises and rakes out fire. He looks shyly at bedroom door, sits and takes his boots off. He rises, boots in hand, moves towards door, hesitates, and turns back, puts boots down at door, then returns to table and takes off his collar. Then hesitates again, finally makes up his mind, puts out light, and lies down on sofa with occasional glances at the bedroom door. At first he faces the fire. He is uncomfortable. He turns over and faces the door. In a minute MAGGIE opens the bedroom door. She has a candle and is in a plain calico night-dress. She comes to WILL, shines the light on him, takes him by the ear, and returns with him to bedroom).
CURTAIN.
{Illustration.} Red papered chamber of an old-fashioned design. Antimacassars on chairs. All sorts of china ornaments. Dogs, vases, artificial flowers, lace curtains on window, books, boot boxes, cushions with lace covers, fire lit. Gas brackets each side of mantelpiece. Old pictures, velvet-framed views.