ack? Sometimes it has
almost terrified me.

PURDIE. We think the same thoughts; we are not two, Mabel; we are one.
Your hair--

MABEL. Joanna knows you admire it, and for a week she did hers in the
same way.

PURDIE. I never noticed.

MABEL. That was why she gave it up. And it didn't really suit her.
(Ruminating.) I can't think of a good way of doing dear Joanna's hair.
What is that you are muttering to yourself, Jack? Don't keep anything
from me.

PURDIE. I was repeating a poem I have written: it is in two words,
'Mabel Purdie.' May I teach it to you, sweet: say 'Mabel Purdie' to
me.

MABEL (timidly covering his mouth with her little hand). If I were to
say it, Jack, I should be false to Joanna: never ask me to be that.
Let us go on.

PURDIE (merciless in his passion). Say it, Mabel, say it. See I write
it on the ground with your sunshade.

MABEL. If it could be! Jack, I'll whisper it to you.

(She is whispering it as they wander, not two but one, farther into
the forest, ardently believing in themselves; they are not
hypocrites. The somewhat bedraggled figure of Joanna follows them,
and the nightingale resumes his love-song. 'That's all you know, you
bird!' thinks Joanna cynically. The nightingale, however, is not
singing for them nor for her, but for another pair he has espied
below. They are racing, the prize to be for the one who first finds
the spot where the easel was put up last night. The hobbledehoy is
sure to be the winner, for she is less laden, and the father loses
time by singing as he comes. Also she is all legs and she started
ahead. Brambles adhere to her, one boot has been in the water and she
has as many freckles as there are stars in heaven. She is as lovely
as you think she is, and she is aged the moment when you like your
daughter best. A hoot of triumph from her brings her father to the
spot.)

MARGARET. Daddy, Daddy. I have won. Here is the place.
Crack-in-my-eye-Tommy!

(He comes. Crack-in-my-eye-Tommy, this engaging fellow in tweeds
is MR. DEARTH, ablaze in happiness and health and a daughter. He
finishes his song, picked up in the Latin Quarter.)

DEARTH. Yes, that is the tree I stuck my easel under last night, and
behold the blessed moon behaving more gorgeously than ever. I am
sorry to have kept you waiting, old moon; but you ought to know by
now how time passes. Now, keep still, while I hand you down to
posterity.

(The easel is erected, MARGARET helping by getting in t