DEARTH. Rather!

MARGARET (grown humble). My dimple is my own.

DEARTH. I am glad you think so. I wore out the point of my little
finger over that dimple.

MARGARET. Even my dimple! Have I anything that is really mine? A bit
of my nose or anything?

DEARTH. When you were a babe you had a laugh that was all your own.

MARGARET. Haven't I it now?

DEARTH. It's gone. (He looks ruefully at her.) I'll tell you how it
went. We were fishing in a stream--that is to say, I was wading and
you were sitting on my shoulders holding the rod. We didn't catch
anything. Somehow or another--I can't think how I did it--you
irritated me, and I answered you sharply.

MARGARET (gasping). I can't believe that.

DEARTH. Yes, it sounds extraordinary, but I did. It gave you a shock,
and, for the moment, the world no longer seemed a safe place to you;
your faith in me had always made it safe till then. You were suddenly
not even sure of your bread and butter, and a frightened tear came to
your eyes. I was in a nice state about it, I can tell you. (He is in
a nice state about it still.)

MARGARET. Silly! (Bewildered) But what has that to do with my laugh,