And when you are with me, Floyd?
(Vanderlip reaches out impulsively and draws her to him. Her head rests on his shoulder. She snuggles in to him in a contented way, her hand petting his. He buries his face in her hair. The scent of her hair gets into his brain and maddens him. He disengages hand from hers and slips it gradually up her bare arm. His other arm, about waist and shoulder, draws her closely against him. All the while, however, they are occupying their respective chairs. They remain this way for a long moment or so, his hand still progressing up her bare arm.)
FREDA
(Tearing herself suddenly loose from him and holding him from her at arms' length, tragically.)
Floyd! Floyd! I want to go away—out of the land—anywhere!—anywhere!
VANDERLIP
(Soothingly.)
Dear Freda.
FREDA
I am tired, tired, so tired of it all. I—I—