WALTER

Sit down, mother.  It’s very jolly here.

MRS. EVERITT

Thank you, Walter.  How many years since I’ve enjoyed a real fire, like this!

WALTER

Oh, there isn’t enough wood.  Just a minute—­(He goes out)

ALICE

You look tired.

MRS. EVERITT

I’m all right, dear.

ALICE

No you’re not.  Why won’t you tell me?

MRS. EVERITT

But Alice, there’s nothing to tell.  I do feel a little tired, but then, I shall be all right in the morning.

ALICE

I wish—­(Walter enters with more wood)

WALTER

Well, Alice, are you still thinking about that dance?

ALICE

Why no, I’d forgotten all about it.  Who could dance in such a rain?  It would make the music seem artificial.  I’m getting tired of boys, too.  They don’t really feel things—­like rain, and fire.

MRS. EVERITT

What’s that noise,—­Harold?

WALTER

No.  It’s the men in the bar room.

MRS. EVERITT

I’m sure it’s Harold.

ALICE

I’ll go see. (She goes out)

WALTER

Mother.

MRS. EVERITT

What, Walter?

WALTER

I must be an awful coward—­

MRS. EVERITT

Why, what do you mean?

WALTER

I mean that when I really want something, and ought to say so, I go along without saying it.  I don’t mean that I’m really afraid to say it, but I always feel somehow that other people ought to know what I want, and save me the trouble of asking it.  No, not trouble exactly—­but you know what I mean.

MRS. EVERITT

Yes, Walter, I’m afraid I know exactly what you mean.  Lots of us are cursed with the same instinct.  I am, and sometimes I believe your father is, too.  It ought to be that when one sees a thing clearly in his own mind, and knows it is best, others—­at least those near to him—­should somehow be aware of it.  But they usually are not.