MARGARET. Especially artists.

DEARTH. Especially artists.

MARGARET (covering herself with leaves and kicking them off). Fame is
not everything.

DEARTH. Fame is rot; daughters are the thing.

MARGARET. Daughters are the thing.

DEARTH. Daughters are the thing.

MARGARET. I wonder if sons would be even nicer?

DEARTH. Not a patch on daughters. The awful thing about a son is that
never, never--at least, from the day he goes to school--can you tell
him that you rather like him. By the time he is ten you can't even
take him on your knee. Sons are not worth having, Margaret. Signed
W. Dearth.

MARGARET. But if you were a mother, Dad, I daresay he would let you do
it.

DEARTH. Think so?

MARGARET. I mean when no one was looking. Sons are not so bad. Signed,
M. Dearth. But I'm glad you prefer daughters. (She works her way
toward him on her knees, making the tear larger.) At what age are we