Lydia. Yes. The portulaca blooms so brightly on his grave. It's really not bad, having your family buried in the front yard, if its dust inspires a flower like this.
Harriet. I don't see why you insist upon picking those. They wilt immediately.
Lydia [looking appealingly at her aunt]. Oh, but they're so bright and gay! I can't keep my hands from them.
Harriet [scornfully smoothing her lace cuff]. Really?
Lydia [for the moment a trifle lonely]. Aunt Harriet, tell me why these dead old men mean so much to you?
Harriet [breathlessly]. Dead—old—men—? Why, Lydia? The Wildes came up from Virginia and were among the very first pioneers, in this section. They practically made this town and there is no better known name here in the southern part of the state than ours. We—
Lydia. Oh, yes. Of course, I've heard all that ever since I can remember. [Assuming an attitude of pride.] We have the oldest and most aristocratic-looking house for miles around; the rose-hedge has bloomed for fifty years—it's very nearly dead, too; General Someone drank out of our well, or General Some-One-Else drowned in it, I always forget which.
Harriet. Lydia!
Lydia [soothingly]. Oh, it doesn't make much difference which. That doesn't worry me. But what does, is how you manage to put a halo around all your fathers and grandfathers and—
Harriet [piously]. Because they represent the noble traditions of a noble past.