EMIL:  Oh, well—­Jesus, if you’re going to talk about that—!  You can’t change the way things are.

MADELINE:  (quietly) Why can’t I?

EMIL:  Well, say, who do you think you are?

MADELINE:  I think I’m an American.  And for that reason I think I have something to say about America.

EMIL:  Huh!  America’ll lock you up for your pains.

MADELINE:  All right.  If it’s come to that, maybe I’d rather be a locked-up American than a free American.

EMIL:  I don’t think you’d like the place, Madeline.  There’s not much tennis played there.  Jesus—­what’s Hindus?

MADELINE:  You aren’t really asking Jesus, are you, Emil? (smiles) You mightn’t like his answer.

EMIL:  (from the door) Take a tip.  Telephone your uncle.

(He goes.)

IRA:  (not looking at her) There might be a fine, and they’d come down on me and take my land.

MADELINE:  Oh, no, father, I think not.  Anyway, I have a little money of my own.  Grandfather Morton left me something.  Have you forgotten that?

IRA:  No.  No, I know he left you something. (the words seem to bother him) I know he left you something.

MADELINE:  I get it to-day. (wistfully) This is my birthday, father.  I’m twenty-one.

IRA:  Your birthday?  Twenty-one? (in pain) Was that twenty-one years ago? (it is not to his daughter this has turned him)

MADELINE:  It’s the first birthday I can remember that I haven’t had a party.

IRA:  It was your Aunt Isabel gave you your parties.

MADELINE:  Yes.

IRA:  Well, you see now.

MADELINE:  (stoutly) Oh, well, I don’t need a party.  I’m grown up now.

(She reaches out for the old Hungarian dish on the table; holding it, she looks to her father, whose back is still turned.  Her face tender, she is about to speak when he speaks.)

IRA:  Grown up now—­and going off and leaving me alone.  You too—­the last one.  And—­what for? (turning, looking around the room as for those long gone) There used to be so many in this house.  My grandmother.  She sat there. (pointing to the place near the open door) Fine days like this—­in that chair (points to the rocker) she’d sit there—­tell me stories of the Indians.  Father.  It wasn’t ever lonely where father was.  Then Madeline Fejevary—­my Madeline came to this house.  Lived with me in this house.  Then one day she—­walked out of this house.  Through that door—­through the field—­out of this house. (bitter silence) Then Fred—­out of this house.  Now you.  With Emil Johnson! (insanely, and almost with relief at leaving things more sane) Don’t let him touch my corn.  If he touches one kernel of this corn! (with the suspicion of the tormented mind) I wonder where he went?  How do I know he went where he said he was going? (getting up) I dunno as that south bin’s locked.