Porter: Maybe I can find another that will say “Papa!”
Margaret: And a baby dolly, and a mammy dolly to take care of her! A whole dolly family! Oh! Oh! (claps her hands) And Papa! Such a lovely pink dress! I’m going to make her an every-day dress, because this is too fine except for parties.
Porter: Do you know what that dress reminds me of, Margaret? The one your Mamma wore the day we were married.
Margaret: Tell me about it!
Porter: Well, you see, grandma and grandpa didn’t want Mamma to marry, because she wasn’t well, even in those young days. But we just loved each other too much, so we ran away, and were married by the Reverend Mr. Smoot of the Presbyterian church, where Mamma sang in the choir. It was a day in the summertime—in Texas; I can see Mamma in the lovely pink crepe dress, soft and fluffy—
(Athol enters, right, as described, a frail delicate girl of eighteen, wearing a pink dress to match that of the doll. Music: “Silver threads among the gold.”)
She was the loveliest thing in the whole wide state of Texas that morning—and Texas is a wide state, I tell you! I was thinking about her last night, and I wrote: (he reads from manuscript, and meantime Margaret slips back into the shadows, and Athol comes forward, manifesting pleasure in the words). “The Bride! Word of words in the epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is the wife; revered the mother; galluptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that gods send in when man is married to mortality.... Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P. touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin.”
Porter (rises and goes to Athol): Dearest! You have come!
Athol: For always, Will.
Porter: For always, and for happiness.