MARGARET (the change in his voice falling clammy on her). You'll see
me often enough, Daddy, like this, so you don't need to look your
fill. You are looking as long as if this were to be the only time.

DEARTH. (with an odd tremor). Was I? Surely it isn't to be that.

MARGARET. Be gay, Dad. (Bumping into him and round him and over him.)
You will be sick of Margaret with her hair up before you are done
with her.

DEARTH. I expect so.

MARGARET. Shut up, Daddy. (She waggles her head, and down comes her
hair.) Daddy, I know what you are thinking of. You are thinking what
a handful she is going to be.

DEARTH. Well, I guess she is.

MARGARET (surveying him from another angle). Now you are thinking
about--about my being in love some day.

DEARTH (with unnecessary warmth). Rot!

MARGARET (reassuringly). I won't, you know; no, never. Oh, I have
quite decided, so don't be afraid, (Disordering his hair.) Will you
hate him at first, Daddy? Daddy, will you hate him? Will you hate
him, Daddy?

DEARTH (at work). Whom?