CLARA. No, but I should like myself better.
ALLEN. What do thee mean, lass?
CLARA. Nothing. I’m not used to your sort of men. (Goes to fireplace, then up R., throwing off her seriousness and turning towards him.) You are like the knight, Allen, out of some old legend that comes and slays the dragon and sets the frightened princess free from all her trouble. (Laughing.)
ALLEN. (Goes to table r. Clara r.c. at top of table.) When art thee going to gie me the right to be thy knight always?
CLARA..(Sits at table playfully.) Ah, the gallant knights are apt to turn into grim jailers—(comes l. of r. table)—when they get the princess into their own castles.
ALLEN. Can’t thee believe me, Clara? Trust me, lass—I’m only a rough country chap to be asking a beautiful lady like thee to be my wife. But if I can’t gie thee anything very showy on the outside, it will make me the more eager alius to keep a loving heart for thee within.
CLARA. Oh, no. (Sits in chair l. of table.) A lover on his knees is so much nicer than a lover on your arm. You are so nice, Allen, as you are, you can’t think. I really couldn’t bring myself to risk a change.
ALLEN. (c.) It would be a change for thee, Clara—(leans on table at back of Clara, puts hand on Clara’s chair)—from a rough and troubled road to one where every stone wur smoothed away from your path—-where every thorn wur held back as you passed—where, instead of care for the day and dread for the morrow, thee would feel that a strong arm wur round thee—that a loving hand wur working out thy life for thee. Cannot thee risk the change, Clara?
CLARA. (Rises, Allen takes her right hand, turns away R.) Ah, I suppose there are such lives for some women. It must be very good when you are tired. (Facing round to L.c.) And you, Allen—women do not always seem so charming after marriage as they did before. It might be a risk for you.
ALLEN. To have the sweetest, noblest woman in the world to be my wife? I’ll risk that. (Laughs, comes c.)