TOM: Thanks.

JIM [following him into living room]: This is a nice little place.

TOM: Ha—ha!

JIM: Well, it’s home-like.

TOM: Look at the paper?

JIM: Give me the comic section.

[Amanda calls from the rear.]

AMANDA: Tom?

TOM: Yes?

AMANDA: Is that you and Mr. Delaney?

TOM [ironically]: No, Mother, it’s Napoleon and Joan of Arc! [He is evidently as little pleased by his part in the business as Laura.]

AMANDA: Ask the young man if he’d like to wash his hands?

TOM: Would you?

JIM: I took care of that at the warehouse.

TOM: He says his hands aren’t dirty, Mother.

AMANDA [musically]: Well, dinner is nearly ready. I’ll be right in.

TOM: Don’t break your neck. [Jim glances over the paper.]

JIM: Your mother has a nice voice. Southern.

TOM: She’s sort of a perennial southern belle. [Picks up front page of paper.] Hitler’s bit off another hunk of Europe. [Jim laughs heartily.]

TOM: What’s funny?

JIM: It’s Sadie Hawkins day!

AMANDA [off]: Laura, dear, I hope you’re nearly ready. I’m putting things on.

[Amanda enters the dining room with a salad bowl. She has changed into a summery, girlish frock that is sprinkled with flowers. The hair net is removed, and her head is a mass of ringlets, which are distinctly too youthful for her present appearance.]

AMANDA [musically]: Somebody seems to be having a mighty good laugh in here! This is Mr. Delaney, I presume? Oh, don’t get up! I’ve heard such a lot of wonderful things about you! Only you haven’t got the comfo’table chair. Tom, you’re such a poor host, seating Mr. Delaney in that straight chair. You sit there on the sofa! I’m not going to say “Mr.,” I’m going to skip formalities and call you—

JIM [a little stunned by her animation]: —Jim.

AMANDA: Jim! I’ve known so many nice Jims—in days gone by. In fact I’ve never known a Jim that wasn’t a darling! So you must be one too! Now tell me—Tell me all your hopes and dreams! Don’t be frightened of me, I know I’m a rattle-trap, I have all the vivacity in this house! And I’m greedy for information, just—just—greedy for it! So tell me everything! Everything all at once! You work in the warehouse? Of course—I know you do! But what’s your position there? The same as Tom’s? Oh, no, it’s better than Tom’s, Tom’s told me that already! A shipping—shipping—?

JIM: —Clerk. Yes—shipping clerk.

AMANDA: Oh! That must be—nice! You—handle—shipping. Tom, go tell Miss Wingfield to put the rest of the dinner on the table. You’ve met Laura, my pretty little daughter?

JIM: She let us in.

AMANDA: Oh, yes! You’ll have to excuse her for making a late appearance. We have no servant and Laura prepared the dinner. Thank heavens my daughter is more domestic than I was! I was a giddy young thing, as pretty as Laura. A little prettier even, if you can believe it!

JIM: It’s not hard to believe.

AMANDA: Well, I was, and I married a handsome man. A very remarkably good-looking man. His picture’s there! So you can see for yourself. Tom Wingfield the First, that gallantly smiling gentleman over the Victrola! [Jim rises to look.]