MADELINE: (_quietly_) Why can't I?
EMIL: Well, say, who do you think you are?
MADELINE: I think I'm an American. And for that reason I think I have
something to say about America.
EMIL: Huh! America'll lock you up for your pains.
MADELINE: All right. If it's come to that, maybe I'd rather be a
locked-up American than a free American.
EMIL: I don't think you'd like the place, Madeline. There's not much
tennis played there. Jesus--what's Hindus?
MADELINE: You aren't really asking Jesus, are you, Emil? (_smiles_) You
mightn't like his answer.
EMIL: (_from the door_) Take a tip. Telephone your uncle.
(_He goes_.)
IRA: (_not looking at her_) There might be a fine, and they'd come down
on me and take my land.
MADELINE: Oh, no, father, I think not. Anyway, I have a little money of
my own. Grandfather Morton left me something. Have you forgotten that?
IRA: No. No, I know he left you something. (_the words seem to bother
him_) I know he left you something.
MADELINE: I get it to-day. (_wistfully_) This is my birthday, father.
I'm twenty-one.
IRA: Your birthday? Twenty-one? (_in pain_) Was that twenty-one years
ago? (_it is not to his daughter this has turned him_)
MADELINE: It's the first birthday I can remember that I haven't had a
party.
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