[ROBERT _and_ ROSE _come in from the garden_. ROBERT _carries a little card-board box in his hand_, _which he places on the table_. ROSE _sits down listlessly on a chair leaning her arms on the table_. ROBERT. [_Undoing the box_.] This is the bouquet what I promised to bring from town. ROSE. [_Her gaze wandering outside_.] Well, we might as well look at it afore I go to dress. [ROBERT _uncovers the box and takes out a small bouquet of white flowers surrounded by a lace frill_. 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?