[Anne Carey appears in the bedroom door. She is a girl of twenty-two. Her manner in this scene shows nervousness and suppressed excitement.]
Anne. Yes, lovely. Get a bowl, Ruth. Quickly.
Ruth. I will. Here's a card. [She hands Anne an envelope, goes to the door, then stops.] What does he say, Anne? May I see?
[Anne, who has read the card quickly with a curious little smile, hands it back to her without turning.]
Ruth [reading]:
The red rose whispers of passion
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips,
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.
Oh, how beautiful! Did he make that up, do you suppose? I didn't know he was a real poet.
Anne [who has been pinning some of the roses on her dress]. Any one in love is a poet.
Ruth. It's perfectly beautiful! [She takes a pencil and little notebook out of her pocket.] May I copy it in my "Harold Notebook"?
Anne. Your what?