it's a sort of pinkish white.
The Young Man: Is it becoming to you?
Julie: Very. It's—it's old. I've had it for a long while.
The Young Man: I thought you hated old clothes.
Julie: I do—but this was a birthday present and I sort of
have to wear it.
The Young Man: Pinkish white. Well, I'll bet it's divine. Is it
in style?
Julie: Quite. It's very simple, standard model.
The Young Man: What a voice you have! How it echoes!
Sometimes I shut my eyes and seem to see you in a far
desert island calling for me. And I plunge toward you
through the surf, hearing you call as you stand there, water
stretching on both sides of you——
(The soap slips from the side of the tub and splashes in.
The young man blinks)
The Young Man: What was that? Did I dream it?
Julie: Yes. You're—you're very poetic, aren't you?
The Young Man: (Dreamily) No. I do prose. I do verse
only when I am stirred.
Julie: (Murmuring) Stirred by a spoon——
The Young Man: I have always loved poetry. I can re-
HYLAND
