THE LADY. Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some roses. Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water? THE GIRL. I don’ want ’em! THE LADY. All right dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes the perfume is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to you? THE GIRL. If you want to. THE LADY. What shall I read? THE GIRL. I don’ care. THE LADY. A story perhaps? THE GIRL. All right—Fire it off. THE LADY. And then afterward, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words. THE GIRL. Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! Gives me the jimmies. Got a story? (THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her wrap and settles herself to read aloud from a magazine): Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she swung. It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and woodbine, but Marianna had no eye for its good points. She was lying with two slim arms clasped behind her head, staring vacantly up at the ceiling and composing a poem. On the wicker table beside her stood a glass of malted milk and a teaspoon. They were not the subject of the poem, but they were nevertheless responsible for it. In the first place, Marianna would _not_ drink her twelve-o’clock malted milk, and as she was forbidden to go off the porch until she had done so, there seemed to be nothing better to do than to cultivate the muse in the hammock. After patiently sipping malted milk for eight years, Marianna had suddenly rebelled. In the second place, her cousin Frank, who lived in the next house, had been inspired by this beverage to make up an insulting ditty. “Grocerman, bring a can Baby-food for Mary Ann!” The girl listens for a moment with a faint show of interest, then goes back to her restless tossing. THE GIRL (interrupting). Say,—d’ye know I’m done for? THE LADY. Oh no! You’re getting better every day. THE GIRL. Oh quit it—I’m goin’! I tell ye. I’ve got a head piece on me, haven’t I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The doctor just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and say—he’s got gump that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know. THE LADY. You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well (girl makes an angry snort). Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get excited, you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the story. You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting. (Reads.) “Grocerman, bring a can Baby-food for Mary Ann!”