[Marie, _with one braid in her hand, bending back, laughing
loudly and forced_.]
Gertrude.
[_In pain_.] Oh, you are pulling my hair----
Marie.
Any one as happy as you should be able to bear a little pain. There! I
will braid it into your hair--for you are happy, are you not? Very
happy?
Gertrude.
Yes! I am--that is--I would like to be--but George--he is so sad.
Marie.
_George_?
Gertrude.
Yes!
Marie.
[_Lurkingly_.] Perhaps you were right! Perhaps he _does_ love another!
Gertrude.
[_Softly groaning_.] Oh, why did you say that?
Marie.
Because---- No, no--how could he? That was wicked in me, wasn't it? How
could he think of another, when he looks at you?
Gertrude.
No, no, Marie, you are right! I told him so myself!
Marie.
[_Slowly and marked_.] And what did he say?
Gertrude.