MADELINE: Don't you think we're rather threatening it ourselves, auntie?
AUNT ISABEL: Why, no, we're fighting for it.
MADELINE: Fighting for what?
AUNT ISABEL: For Americanism; for--democracy.
MADELINE: Horace is fighting for it?
AUNT ISABEL: Well, Horace does go at it as if it were a football game,
but his heart's in the right place.
MADELINE: Somehow, I don't seem to see my heart in that place.
AUNT ISABEL: In what place?
MADELINE: Where Horace's heart is.
AUNT ISABEL: It's too bad you and Horace quarrel. But you and I don't
quarrel, Madeline.
MADELINE: (_again drawn to the cell_) No. You and I don't quarrel. (_she
is troubled_)
AUNT ISABEL: Funny child! Do you want us to?
(MADELINE _turns, laughing a little, takes the dish from the table,
holds it out to her aunt_.)
MADELINE: Have some fudge, auntie.
AUNT ISABEL: (_taking the dish_) Do you _use_ them?--the old Hungarian
dishes? (_laughingly_) I'm not allowed to--your uncle is so choice of
the few pieces we have. And here are you with fudge in one of them.
MADELINE: I made the fudge because--oh, I don't know, I had to do
something to celebrate my birthday.
AUNT ISABEL: (_under her breath_) Dearie!
MADELINE: And then that didn't seem to--make a birthday, so I happened
to see this, way up on a top shelf, and I remembered that it was my
mother's.
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