Bobbie. I don't want to play any more, I want to talk to you.
Faith. What shall we talk about?
Bobbie. I could tell you such wonderful things—but I don't know whether you would understand.
Faith (pouting girlishly). That's not very polite. (Coming down between armchair and Chesterfield.)
Bobbie. I mean that you wouldn't understand unless you felt like I do. Oh, I don't know how to put it—but do you?
Faith (coyly). Do I what? (Sits L. of Chesterfield.)
Bobbie (by armchair—desperately). Feel as if you could ever care—even a little bit—for me?
Faith. I haven't tried yet.
Bobbie. Well, will you try?
Faith. I must ask mother.