MARGARET. The world—everything—and you, Daddy, most of all. Things that are too beautiful can't last.
DEARTH (who knows it). Now, how did you find that out?
MARGARET (still in his arms). I don't know, Daddy, am I sometimes stranger than other people's daughters?
DEARTH. More of a madcap, perhaps.
MARGARET (solemnly). Do you think I am sometimes too full of gladness?
DEARTH. My sweetheart, you do sometimes run over with it. (He is at his easel again.)
MARGARET (persisting). To be very gay, dearest dear, is so near to being very sad.
DEARTH (who knows it). How did you find that out, child?
MARGARET. I don't know. From something in me that's afraid. (Unexpectedly.) Daddy, what is a 'might-have-been?'
DEARTH. A might-have-been? They are ghosts, Margaret. I daresay I 'might have been' a great swell of a painter, instead of just this uncommonly happy nobody. Or again, I might have been a worthless idle waster of a fellow.