Rose. [Her gaze wandering outside.] Well, we might as well look at it afore I go to dress.
[Robert uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white flowers surrounded by a lace frill.
Rose. [Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face.] Why, they are false ones.
Robert. [Contemptuously.] My good girl, who ever went to church with orange blossom that was real, I’d like to know?
Rose. [Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table.] I’m sure I don’t care. I reckon that one thing’s about as good as another to be married with.
Robert. [Going to the window and looking out.] Ah—I daresay ’tis so.
Rose. I feel tired of my wedding day already—that I do.
Robert. There’s a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what a man’s hardly used to, so it seems to me.
Rose. [Wildly.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we die.
Robert. Now—if ’twas with the right—