LAURA: I’m glad you did. Here! Hold him if you like!

JIM: I’d better not.

LAURA: Oh, please! [He takes it gingerly.]

LAURA: There now! You’re holding it very gently!

JIM: I am right now. But most of the time—you wouldn’t trust me with it?

LAURA: Most of the time—You’d hold it the same as I do!

JIM: The record’s stopped. I’d better change the record.

LAURA: Play “Dardanella.” That’s my favorite record.

JIM: Okay. Let’s—Let’s dance!

LAURA: I’ve never danced. I wish that I knew how.

JIM: Would you—like to try?

LAURA: Why, I—yes, I’d love to! [They bend simultaneously to change the record. They bump their heads together and both draw back with a slight laugh.]

LAURA: You—you do it.

JIM [staring at her]: Sure—I better do it. [He bows over the little machine and puts on “Dardanella.”]

LAURA [faintly]: Your hair is—pretty!

JIM: Don’t say “pretty.” That’s more for a—girl. Your hair is pretty.

LAURA: Oh, mine’s so fine, there’s nothing I can do with it but—let it go!

JIM: It’s— [Touches it gently.] awfully pretty.

LAURA: “Well I still think yours is. Now shall we—start dancing?

JIM: Yes.

LAURA [laughs uncertainly and shyly]: How do I—?

JIM: Just leave all that to me. Don’t tighten up, just be relaxed and let me move you around.

LAURA: —Can you?

JIM: Sure I can!

LAURA: Why, yes, you—can!

[They start to move about the room in a dance that is a little constrained at first but rapidly takes on freedom and grace: Laura laughs breathlessly as he moves her faster about the little candle-lit room.]

JIM: Just, just—let yourself go!

LAURA: I’m stepping on you!

JIM: Don’t mind that!

LAURA: Don’t you?

JIM: I’m not made of glass!

LAURA: It feels so funny.

JIM: Is that why you’re laughing?

LAURA: No, I’m—out of breath! Please, let’s—stop for a minute! I—feel so—funny! [She laughs breathlessly and can’t stop, like water gone down the wrong way. He gradually lets her go. She retreats a step from him, still struggling to catch her breath. His arms extend uncertainly.]

JIM: You’re a awf’ly pretty—little—Girl!

LAURA: —What?

JIM: —Little—little—girl! Made out of glass! When it’s—sunny— living in a— [Takes her hands and draws her towards him.] —Rainbow! [He kisses her full and hungrily on the lips.]

[After a couple of moments in which the embrace endures with a curious, hesitant intensity only possible between two people who have never really kissed before—Amanda opens the portieres. She has a pitcher of lemonade in one hand. But she draws discreetly back and closes the curtains again.]

JIM: —Was that—?

LAURA [faintly]: Mother.

JIM: Gosh, I— [He crosses to portieres.]

JIM: Mrs. Wingfield?