ay. The dining-room-after dinner.

ACT I

The MARCH'S dining-room opens through French windows on one of those
gardens which seem infinite, till they are seen to be coterminous
with the side walls of the house, and finite at the far end, because
only the thick screen of acacias and sumachs prevents another house
from being seen. The French and other windows form practically all
the outer wall of that dining-room, and between them and the screen
of trees lies the difference between the characters of Mr and Mrs
March, with dots and dashes of Mary and Johnny thrown in. For
instance, it has been formalised by MRS MARCH but the grass has not
been cut by MR MARCH, and daffodils have sprung up there, which MRS
MARCH desires for the dining-room, but of which MR MARCH says: "For
God's sake, Joan, let them grow." About half therefore are now in a
bowl on the breakfast table, and the other half still in the grass,
in the compromise essential to lasting domesticity. A hammock under
the acacias shows that MARY lies there sometimes with her eyes on
the gleam of sunlight that comes through: and a trail in the longish
grass, bordered with cigarette ends, proves that JOHNNY tramps there
with his eyes on the ground or the stars, according. But all this
is by the way, because except for a yard or two of gravel terrace
outside the windows, it is all painted on the backcloth. The
MARCHES have been at breakfast, and the round table, covered with
blue linen, is thick with remains, seven baskets full. The room is
gifted with old oak furniture: there is a door, stage Left, Forward;
a hearth, where a fire is burning, and a high fender on which one
can sit, stage Right, Middle; and in the wall below the fireplace,
a service hatch covered with a sliding shutter, for the passage of
dishes into the adjoining pantry. Against the wall, stage Left, is
an old oak dresser, and a small writing table across the Left Back
corner. MRS MARCH still sits behind the coffee pot, making up her
daily list on tablets with a little gold pencil fastened to her
wrist. She is personable, forty-eight, trim, well-dressed, and more
matter-of-fact than seems plausible. MR MARCH is sitting in an
armchair, sideways to the windows, smoking his pipe and reading his
newspaper, with little expl