MARGARET. Be gay, Dad. (Bumping into him and round him and over him.) You will be sick of Margaret with her hair up before you are done with her.
DEARTH. I expect so.
MARGARET. Shut up, Daddy. (She waggles her head, and down comes her hair.) Daddy, I know what you are thinking of. You are thinking what a handful she is going to be.
DEARTH. Well, I guess she is.
MARGARET (surveying him from another angle). Now you are thinking about—about my being in love some day.
DEARTH (with unnecessary warmth). Rot!
MARGARET (reassuringly). I won't, you know; no, never. Oh, I have quite decided, so don't be afraid, (Disordering his hair.) Will you hate him at first, Daddy? Daddy, will you hate him? Will you hate him, Daddy?
DEARTH (at work). Whom?
MARGARET. Well, if there was?
DEARTH. If there was what, darling?