MRS. CROSBY. Yes, but--Helen--
HELEN. Please, let me say it all. You have social position, great
wealth, charming friends, everything that makes life worth--Oh, what's
the use? You know as well as I do the great difference between us, and--
MRS. CROSBY. My dear child, suppose we admit all that, what then?
HELEN. But don't you see--
WILLIAM (_embracing her in front of table_ R.). You little idiot!
I don't see anything but you.
MRS. CROSBY. You love each other, that's the whole of it, children.
Suppose you listen to an old woman.
WILLIAM. Old! Huh!
MRS. CROSBY. Well, old enough. If Billy was the usual rich man's son it
might be different. There might be something in what you say. But thank
God he isn't. Mind you, I don't say he wasn't like most of them when he
was younger. I dare say he was, I know he went to supper with a chorus
girl once.
WILLIAM. Twice.
HELEN. What was she like?
WILLIAM. Like a chorus girl.
MRS. CROSBY. The trouble with you, my dear, is that you've been reading
novels. When Billy's father married me, I was a school teacher, and he
was a clerk. We didn't have any money, but we were awfully in love--we
still rather like each other. Now just for the sake of argument, suppose
we should have acted like stern parents, what would be the use? Billy's
in business for himself, he's making his own money, he can marry when he
wants to and as he wants to, and if you want my real opinion, I don't
mind confessing that I think he's pretty lucky to get you.
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