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.]

JIM: He certainly was good looking.

AMANDA: No doubt about that! A girl can do no worse than put herself at the mercy of—a handsome appearance! Character’s what to look for in a man. Sterling qualities, that’s what counts in the world! What was I telling you? Oh, yes Tom Wingfield, the children’s father. They hardly remember his face! He just disappeared, walked off one morning and didn’t come back that night. A few months later I received a postcard from Hawthorne, California, saying on it—“Working on a squab ranch!” Tell me, what is a squab ranch, do you know?

JIM: I guess it’s a—

AMANDA: Place where they raise pigeons! Something like that! The most improbable statement in the world! And went on to say “I’ll send you some money as soon as I get paid!” But, Mr. Delaney—the man was never paid! Ha-ha-ha! Must have never been paid . . . ha-ha-ha! Well, five years later another post-card came, this one from Mexico. Ha-ha-ha! The capital city of Mexico, with a picture of—parrots or something! Well—“Dear Amanda. Hope you’re well and happy. Much love. Tom!” Ha-ha-ha! That was the last we heard of Tom Wingfield the First. So you can see that Tom Wingfield the Second has a lot to live up to, and let me tell you—I’ve had to scratch for existence! Don’t let anyone tell you a woman deserted with children to take care of has a bed of roses! A bed of—briers I’ve lived in! But why am I telling you all my earthly sorrows, when there’s so much that’s pleasant to talk about? Tom—is Laura getting the dinner on the table?

TOM: No, she isn’t.

AMANDA: What?—Oh!—Please excuse me. I guess that Laura hasn’t finished—dressing. I must see. [She flounces prettily out, her musical laughter still ringing.]

TOM [gloomily]: You see what I mean? A perennial southern belle.

JIM [recovering slowly]: She can—talk!

TOM: Oh, yes.

JIM [wiping his forehead]: Wonderful—a woman like that!

TOM: Would you like to live with her?

JIM: Like to? Why not!

TOM: Well— [Amanda trips back in the upstage area with some dishes.]