Julie: Why?
The Young Man: I see all the pictures are off the walls.
Julie: Why, we never have pictures in this room.
The Young Man: Odd, I never heard of a room without pictures or tapestry or panelling or something.
Julie: There's not even any furniture in here.
The Young Man: What a strange house!
Julie: It depend on the angle you see it from.
The Young Man: (Sentimentally) It's so nice talking to you like this—when you're merely a voice. I'm rather glad I can't see you.
Julie; (Gratefully) So am I.
The Young Man: What color are you wearing?
Julie: (After a critical survey of her shoulders) Why, I guess 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 Young Man: What was that? Did I dream it?
Julie: Yes. You're—you're very poetic, aren't you?
