DEARTH. Fame is rot; daughters are the thing.

MARGARET. Daughters are the thing.

DEARTH. Daughters are the thing.

MARGARET. I wonder if sons would be even nicer?

DEARTH. Not a patch on daughters. The awful thing about a son is that
never, never--at least, from the day he goes to school--can you tell
him that you rather like him. By the time he is ten you can't even
take him on your knee. Sons are not worth having, Margaret. Signed
W. Dearth.

MARGARET. But if you were a mother, Dad, I daresay he would let you do
it.

DEARTH. Think so?

MARGARET. I mean when no one was looking. Sons are not so bad. Signed,
M. Dearth. But I'm glad you prefer daughters. (She works her way
toward him on her knees, making the tear larger.) At what age are we
nicest, Daddy? (She has constantly to repeat her questions, he is so
engaged with his moon.) Hie, Daddy, at what age are we nicest? Daddy,
hie, hie, at what age are we nicest?

DEARTH. Eh? That's a poser. I think you were nicest when you were two
and knew your alphabet up to G but fell over at H. No, you were best
when you were half-past three; or just before you struck six; or in
the mumps year, when I asked you in the early morning how you were
and you said solemnly 'I haven't tried yet.'

MARGARET (awestruck). Did I?

DEARTH. Such was your answer. (Struggling with the momentous
question.) But I am not sure that chicken-pox doesn't beat mumps. Oh
Lord, I'm all wrong. The nicest time in a father's life is the year
before she puts up her hair.

MARGARET (topheavy with pride in herself). I suppose that is a
splendid time. But there's a nicer year coming to you. Daddy, there
is a nicer year coming to you.

DEARTH. Is there, darling?

MARGARET. Daddy, the year she does put up her hair!

DEARTH. (with arrested brush). Puts it up for ever? You know, I am
afraid that when the day for that comes I shan't be able to stand it.
It will be too exciting. My poor heart, Margaret.

MARGARET (rushing at him). No, no, it will be lucky you, for it isn't
to be a bit like that. I am to be a girl and woman day about for the
first year. You will never know which I am till you look at my hair.
And even then you won't know, for if it is down I shall put it up,
and if it is up I shall put it down. And so my Daddy will gradually
get used to the idea.

DEARTH. (wryly). I see you have been thinking it out.

MARGARET (gleaming). I have been doing more than that. Shut your eyes,
Dad,