[Curtain rises on a conventional living room of a country house in California. It is the Hemingway house at Santa Clara. The room is remarkable for magnificent stone fireplace at rear centre. On either side of fireplace are generous, diamond-paned windows. Wide, curtained doorways to right and left. To left, front, table, with vase of flowers and chairs. To right, front, grand piano.]
[Curtain discovers LORETTA seated at piano, not playing, her back to it, facing NED BASHFORD, who is standing.]
LORETTA. [Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of music.] No, I won’t go fishing. It’s too warm. Besides, the fish won’t bite so early in the afternoon.
NED. Oh, come on. It’s not warm at all. And anyway, we won’t really fish. I want to tell you something.
LORETTA. [Still petulantly.] You are always wanting to tell me something.
NED. Yes, but only in fun. This is different. This is serious. Our . . . my happiness depends upon it.
LORETTA. [Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking, serious and delighted, divining a proposal.] Then don’t wait. Tell me right here.
NED. [Almost threateningly.] Shall I?
LORETTA. [Challenging.] Yes.
[He looks around apprehensively as though fearing interruption, clears his throat, takes resolution, also takes LORETTA’s hand.]