Mary. You’d be happier, wouldn’t you, if you had a job?
Rodney. Please don’t talk like father; he’s preached a job at me ever since I left college. Why should I work? Father made millions out of soap and is forever complaining that he’s always had his nose to the grindstone, that he’s worked fourteen hours a day for thirty years, that he’s never known what fun was, that it’s all made him old before his time. I can’t see the sense of following an example like that—I really can’t. He’s got enough for you, and me, and our children. Yes, and our children’s grandchildren. I’ve explained all this to him but I can’t seem to make him understand. But it’s simple: why work when there’s millions in the family? And why even talk of money when you and I are in love? Come, kiss me. (He leans towards her; she moves away to L. He crosses R.)
Mary. No, you mustn’t—not till you’ve spoken to your father.
Rodney. You won’t kiss me till I tell him?
Mary. No.
Rodney. And you will when I do?
Mary. Yes.
Rodney. Then I’ll tell him right away. (He goes toward door L. She crosses R.)
Mary. Oh, Rodney, you’re splendid! And don’t be afraid.