(Reminiscing) Oh, Godliness, do you remember a day in the chill of last January when one Julie, famous for her Easter-rabbit smile, was going out and there was scarcely any hot water and young Julie had just filled the tub for her own little self when the wicked sister came and did bathe herself therein, forcing the young Julie to perform her ablutions with cold cream—which is expensive and a darn lot of troubles?
LOIS: (Impatiently) Then you won’t hurry?
JULIE: Why should I?
LOIS: I’ve got a date.
JULIE: Here at the house?
LOIS: None of your business.
(JULIE shrugs the visible tips of her shoulders and stirs the water into ripples.)
JULIE: So be it.
LOIS: Oh, for Heaven’s sake, yes! I have a date here, at the house—in a way.
JULIE: In a way?
LOIS: He isn’t coming in. He’s calling for me and we’re walking.
JULIE: (Raising her eyebrows) Oh, the plot clears. It’s that literary Mr. Calkins. I thought you promised mother you wouldn’t invite him in.
LOIS: (Desperately) She’s so idiotic. She detests him because he’s just got a divorce. Of course she’s had more expedience than I have, but—
JULIE: (Wisely) Don’t let her kid you! Experience is the biggest gold brick in the world. All older people have it for sale.
LOIS: I like him. We talk literature.
JULIE: Oh, so that’s why I’ve noticed all these weighty, books around the house lately.
LOIS: He lends them to me.
JULIE: Well, you’ve got to play his game. When in Rome do as the Romans would like to do. But I’m through with books. I’m all educated.
LOIS: You’re very inconsistent—last summer you read every day.
JULIE: If I were consistent I’d still be living on warm milk out of a bottle.
LOIS: Yes, and probably my bottle. But I like Mr. Calkins.
JULIE: I never met him.
LOIS: Well, will you hurry up?
JULIE: Yes. (After a pause) I wait till the water gets tepid and then I let in more hot.
LOIS: (Sarcastically) How interesting!
JULIE: ’Member when we used to play “soapo”?
LOIS: Yes—and ten years old. I’m really quite surprised that you don’t play it still.
JULIE: I do. I’m going to in a minute.
LOIS: Silly game.
JULIE: (Warmly) No, it isn’t. It’s good for the nerves. I’ll bet you’ve forgotten how to play it.
LOIS: (Defiantly) No, I haven’t. You—you get the tub all full of soapsuds and then you get up on the edge and slide down.
JULIE: (Shaking her head scornfully) Huh! That’s only part of it. You’ve got to slide down without touching your hand or feet—
LOIS:(Impatiently) Oh, Lord! What do I care? I wish we’d either stop coming here in the summer or else get a house with two bathtubs.
JULIE: You can buy yourself a little tin one, or use the hose—
LOIS: Oh, shut up!
JULIE: (Irrelevantly) Leave the towel.
LOIS: What?
JULIE: Leave the towel when you go.
LOIS: This towel?
JULIE: (Sweetly) Yes, I forgot my towel.
LOIS: (Looking around for the first time) Why, you idiot! You haven’t even a kimono.
JULIE: (Also looking around) Why, so I haven’t.
LOIS: (Suspicion growing on her) How did you get here?
JULIE: (Laughing) I guess I—I guess I whisked here. You know—a white form whisking down the stairs and—
LOIS: (Scandalized) Why, you little wretch. Haven’t you any pride or self-respect?
JULIE: Lots of both. I think that proves it. I looked very well. I really am rather cute in my natural state.
LOIS: Well, you—
JULIE: (Thinking aloud) I wish people didn’t wear any clothes. I guess I ought to have been a pagan or a native or something.
LOIS: You’re a—
JULIE: I dreamt last night that one Sunday in church a small boy brought in a magnet that attracted cloth. He attracted the clothes right off of everybody; put them in an awful state; people were crying and shrieking and carrying on as if they’d just discovered their skins for the first time. Only I didn’t care. So I just laughed. I had to pass the collection plate because nobody else would.
LOIS: (Who has turned a deaf ear to this speech) Do you mean to tell me that if I hadn’t come you’d have run back to your room—un—unclothed?
JULIE: Au naturel is so much nicer.
LOIS: Suppose there had been some one in the living-room.
JULIE: There never has been yet.
LOIS: Yet! Good grief! How long—
JULIE: Besides, I usually have a towel.
LOIS: (Completely overcome) Golly! You ought to be spanked. I hope, you get caught. I hope there’s a dozen ministers in the living-room when you come out—and their wives, and their daughters.
JULIE: There wouldn’t be room for them in the living-room, answered Clean Kate of the Laundry District.
LOIS: All right. You’ve made your own—bathtub; you can lie in it.
(LOIS starts determinedly for the door.)
JULIE: (In alarm) Hey! Hey! I don’t care about the k’mono, but I want the towel. I can’t dry myself on a piece of soap and a wet wash-rag.
LOIS: (Obstinately). I won’t humor such a creature. You’ll have to dry yourself the best way you can. You can roll on the floor like the animals do that don’t wear any clothes.
JULIE: (Complacent again) All right. Get out!
LOIS: (Haughtily) Huh!
(JULIE turns on the cold water and with her finger directs a parabolic stream at LOIS. LOIS retires quickly, slamming the door after her. JULIE laughs and turns off the water)
