CELIA. Yes.

AUNT IDA. You are being frightfully immoral.

CELIA. Yes.

AUNT IDA. (_Startled_) And how on earth are you going to keep them from finding out?

CELIA. (_Taking_ AUNT IDA'S _hand_) Well, first of all, dear, a regiment did sail for Somaliland this morning.

AUNT IDA. Yes, but regiments sail back.

CELIA. Wobbles won't.

AUNT IDA. Wobbles?

CELIA. (_Laughing to herself_) Isn't that a heavenly name, Aunt Ida,--Wobbles?

AUNT IDA. (_Turning away from_ CELIA _reprovingly_) Celia!

CELIA. (_Still seated, throwing out her arms with a big gesture_) Oh, the difference that dear, dear man is going to make in my life. Oh, the difference.

AUNT IDA. (_Going back to_ CELIA _and putting her hand on her shoulder_) Oh, my dearest child. Do give up this mad scheme and come back with me and be happy in Chicago.

CELIA. Oh, I couldn't give it up now. It's going to be too much fun.

Now be a dear and stand by me through this and then I'll go to Chicago and stay there forever, but first let me have this one mad experience, do let me enjoy my blushing triumph as a brave and absent soldier's adored fiancee. (_Crosses to table_ R. _and straightens writing things_.) Do you know, Aunt Ida, I just loved writing that first love letter to him just now.

AUNT IDA. But Celia, your letter!!!

CELIA. That is all right, dear. I burned that. Do you know what I am going to do, Aunt Ida? (_Suddenly throwing herself in chair_ L. _of table_ R.)

AUNT IDA. What?

CELIA. I am going to make it a point now to shut myself alone in my room every afternoon for hours--let someone else look after the house and the servants while I correspond with Wobbles. (AUNT IDA _laughs_.) I am going to give myself a chance at last. I'm going to do all sorts of wonderful things.

AUNT IDA. (_Down_ C.) What?

CELIA. (_Rising and coming to her_) I don't know what, but I'm going to do them. One day I'll wear a haunted look in my eye as I gaze sadly toward Somaliland. I wonder where it is. (_Looks around_.) The next, I'll have a merry laugh or else a mocking smile. By day, I'll wander through the woods and think of him. By night, I'll sit before the fire and dream of him.

AUNT IDA. Celia! Celia!

CELIA. Oh, I know I'll be a perfect fool, but I'll be the only one who will know it, and if one little fib can turn this household upside down, I am going to keep it there now just as long as it pleases me.

(_Saunters right_.)

AUNT IDA. (_Frightened_) Celia, suppose you are found out!

CELIA. (_Coming back_ C.) Now, what should I do? My heroic Wobbles--my beloved Colonel Smith will die--in Somaliland. (_Going to magazine table, gets calendar, comes down_ C. _to_ AUNT IDA _and runs over leaves_.) Now, let me see when--when will he die? (_Stop's at a leaf_.) On October 11th. There, now, it is all arranged. (_She replaces calendar on table_.) After eight brief months of the most perfect understanding, I shall lose--Wobbles. After eight months, I'll write out a notice of his death and _you_ will send it to the Times.

AUNT IDA. (_Slowly_) To _The Times?_ I?

CELIA. Yes.

AUNT IDA. Never. (_Sits_ R. _of table_ L.)

CELIA. What? Not if I promise to go with you to Chicago? (AUNT IDA _shakes her head_.) And you know how much you always wanted me to do that. Oh, yes, you will, Aunt Ida. (_Goes to her_.) I'll buy the tickets to-morrow. You shall have the very nicest cabin on the whole ship. On October 11th we will kill off the Colonel and the very next day we will sail away, we'll sail away. (_Crosses_ R. _gayly_.)

AUNT IDA. I tell you, I will not help you. It's too immoral.

CELIA. Oh, very well, then. Have I, or have I not, proved now that I can help myself?

AUNT IDA. (_Rising and coming_ C. _Half angry, half laughing_) Are you, or are you not, ashamed of yourself, Celia Faraday?

CELIA. Ashamed? I? Why, no, not the least little bit in the world. I don't believe I was ever so happy in all my life.

AUNT IDA. Oh, oh!

CELIA. It's all very well, dear, for you to "Oh, oh!" at me, but I ask you, Aunt Ida, have you ever been pitied and patronized as I was here to-night, as I have been all these years, and looked upon as old and ugly and dowdy and dull?

AUNT IDA. (_Sympathetically_) Not that, Celia, not that.

CELIA. Oh, don't think I don't know those things about myself. I do, but I don't like to hear them all the time, just the same. Have you ever been a wall-flower at every ball you have gone to, while all the other girls danced and had a perfectly lovely time? Have _you_ ever been seated next to the _oldest_, _deafest_ members of the community at every dinner party you have gone to? Positively, Aunt Ida, I've grown so now that I can't talk at a dinner party except through an ear trumpet. (_Goes_ R. _and then returns_.) And, if that Tarver creature or a Jim Raleigh or that old fossil of an Admiral or any other mortal trouser-wearing remnant of humanity had ever condescended to propose to me, there isn't a man or woman in this entire household, beginning with Martin and the boot boy, who wouldn't respect me and treat me quite differently in consequence.

AUNT IDA. Yes, I know it.

CELIA. Oh, don't _I_ know it?

AUNT IDA. Yes, it has been pretty well rubbed in.

CELIA. Yes, I should say it has. Well, it has just been rubbed in so hard to-night that, as Phyllis would say, the straw has broken the worm's back and the worm has turned at last. Never, never, never again will I be content to be what I have been all these years. "Good old Celia." (_Walking_ R.) Yes, "Nice old thing." (_Walking to_ C.) Celia who doesn't want things and Celia who looks after things and Celia who doesn't mind things and Celia who attends to things. Well, Celia who attends to things is dead. Now everything attends to Celia. (_Warn curtain. From now on, gay and laughing and walking to and fro across stage with_ AUNT IDA _slowly, her arm around_ AUNT IDA'S _waist_.) When the day begins and Father shouts, "G.o.d bless my soul, what's the matter with this coffee?" (_Turns right_) I'll be upstairs in bed, drinking chocolate. And then, when the evening comes and Martin says, "Beg pardon, Miss, but the whiskey is out," I'll say, "I don't care.

Colonel Smith doesn't drink." (_Turns_ L.) Instead of keeping house accounts, I'm going to write my love letters, and instead of ordering groceries, I'm going to order frocks, and wait until you see the frocks I'm going to order. (_They stop walking_.) I'm going to be a blazing dream. I'll be younger than the youngest of them, gayer than the gayest, and what do I care now what any of them say or do or think about me? I'll wear just as many green stockings as they wish at as many weddings as they please, and I'll laugh and I'll sing and I'll dance them into holes, because why? Well, I'll have a sweetheart of _my own_, don't you see? I'll be the lady love of--_Wobbles_. (_Waves her handkerchief in the air and she and_ AUNT IDA _embrace, laughing heartily_.)

QUICK CURTAIN

(_Running time, thirty to thirty-five minutes, depending on laughs_.)

ACT II

SCENE: _Same as Act I_.

_There is a slight rearrangement of furniture and addition of properties. Table and chairs_ L.C., _moved twelve inches nearer center. Armchair put left of table and plain chair right of table. The lamp has been moved from table to top of cabinet_ L., _making room for teatray laid for five people. Also on the tray is a plate containing plum cake, a three-shelf m.u.f.fin-stand or curate, containing cakes and sandwiches, is placed below cabinet. Sewing bag, purse and army list have been removed. Throat spray for_ PHYLLIS _behind vase on table_ R.

_A medicine bottle in room off_ R. _Embroidery on table_ R. _for_ PHYLLIS. _Election speech (a roll of foolscap paper) on cabinet_ L.

_for_ TARVER. _Waste-paper basket removed. The curtains are drawn closer than in Act I and card table has been folded and placed against backing and chairs distributed against backing of card room. The ladies are in afternoon house dress and_ FARADAY _in frock or morning coat. All the flowers are changed and autumn varieties replace those of spring. It is eight months later in the late afternoon. Halfway through the act, it grows darker and lights are required, though lights are full up to commence_.