Rose. [Taking it from him carelessly and raising it to her face.] Why, they are false ones.

Robert. [Contemptuously.] My good girl, who ever went to church with orange blossom that was real, I’d like to know?

Rose. [Languidly dropping the bouquet on the table.] I’m sure I don’t care.  I reckon that one thing’s about as good as another to be married with.

Robert. [Going to the window and looking out.] Ah—­I daresay ’tis so.

Rose.  I feel tired of my wedding day already—­that I do.

Robert.  There’s a plaguey, fanciful kind of feel about the day, what a man’s hardly used to, so it seems to me.

Rose. [Wildly.] O, I reckon we may get used to it in time afore we die.

Robert.  Now—­if ’twas with the right —

Rose.  Right what, Robert?

Robert. [Confused.] I hardly know what I was a-going to say, Rose.  Suppose you was to take up your flowers and go to dress yourself.  We might as well get it all over and finished with.

Rose. [Rising slowly.] Perhaps ’twould be best.  I’ll go to my room, and you might call the girl Lucy and send her up to help me with my things.

Robert.  Won’t you take the bouquet along of you?

Rose.  No—­let it bide there.  I can have it later.

[She goes slowly from the room.

[Left to himself, Robert strolls to the open door and looks gloomily out on the garden.  Suddenly his face brightens.

Robert.  Lucy, Lucy, come you in here a moment.

Lucy. [From outside.] I be busy just now hanging out my cloths, master.

Robert.  Leave your dish cloths to dry themselves.  Your mistress wants you, Lucy.

Lucy. [Coming to the door.] Mistress wants me, did you say?

Robert.  Yes, you’ve got to go and dress her for the church.  But you can spare me a minute or two first.

Isabel. [Going quickly across the room to the staircase door.] Indeed, that is what I cannot do, master.  ’Tis late already.

Robert. [Catches her hand and pulls her back.] I’ve never had a good look at your face yet, my girl—­you act uncommon coy, and that you do.

Isabel. [Turning her head away and speaking angrily.] Let go of my hand, I tell you.  I don’t want no nonsense of that sort.

Robert.  Lucy, your voice do stir me in a very uncommon fashion, and there’s sommat about the appearance of you —

Isabel.  Let go of me, master.  Suppose as anyone should look through the window.

Robert.  Let them look.  I’d give a good bit for all the world to see us now.

Isabel.  O, whatever do you mean by that, Mister Robert?

Robert.  What I say.  ’Tis with you as I’d be going along to church this morning.  Not her what’s above.