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SATURDAY’S CHILDREN

ACT ONE

[Reading] Cigar and stationery, poolroom, receipts $350 weekly, rent $80—good lease, large corner, good chance to build up—

Wait a minute! Read slower!

Oh, all right.—Cigar—stationery, poolroom, receipts $350—rent $80—

And so with the young husband saving on his lunch like a dear and his little wife eking out the eggs and butter we just barely get through—and oh, we adore it, don’t we, Willy?

[Reading]—good lease, large corner, good chance to build up large newspaper route, sacrifice, terms, going South. Federal Business Exchange, 1133 Broadway.

[Taking it down] Well, you might answer your only love and darling pride instead of going on in that cold-blooded way, dearest,—[To Mrs. Halevy] and little Willy is really growing more adorable every day—I just grudge every hour away from him, and so does Willy, only he thinks it’s unmanly for a father to talk about his child—you know, the way most men run on—don’t you, dear?

[Reading] Garage, Central Park West, 160 cars at $40 direct from owner. 230 Grand Street—

[Writing] 230 Grand Street!—Darling, please, my arm’s paralyzed—

[Interrupting her] And say, get this—We collect quickly, bad bills, notes, checks, partnership frauds, stocks, schemes, business transactions confidentially investigated, investors protected, civil, criminal, commercial difficulties handled by clever experienced detectives, free advice, open evenings,—I’m going to sick that gang on a certain party tomorrow—

On me, I suppose—

I said, on a certain party, and she knows who I mean. I’m going to find out the truth about the strange dark man who carries ice into the basement and converses with my wife by way of the dumb waiter. It’s been going on for over a year now and our child’s three months old—draw your own conclusions—

Willy! You obscene beast—just for that I do think Tony is the handsomest thing—

Well, all I can say is I wish he was married off and salted away so I could go to work with an easy mind—

Married! Darling, he has seven children—

And still handsome? What a man!

[Vaguely] Who is it, dear?

Oh, just the ice-man. Willy’s always teasing me about him. I’m going to run away with him sometime but we’ve had to put it off because he hasn’t any money. He has only the ice business, you know. So I’m living on with Willy and the baby for the present.

Oh, Florrie, I don’t know whether you ought to joke about such things—

Now, mother—

It’s no joke, you know. It’s Florrie’s romance. Everybody has to have his romance, and if your husband’s a real estate agent you fall in love with the ice-man, and if your husband’s an ice-man you probably run away with a real estate agent. I know how to handle her, though. I stay so damn poor she never has enough pocket money to run away with anybody.

[Laying down her pencil and addressing Mrs. Halevy] Isn’t he the most vicious!—Will you take that back?

Nope.

[Baby talk] Will you take it back?

Nope.

[Her hands in his hair] Will you take it back?

Nope. Hey. Hey. Yep! Yep! Sure!

You take it all back?

Sure! Say, leave me my hair—what there is of it.

And does he love his Florrie?

Sure, I do. I never said I didn’t.

And does his Florrie love him?

Gosh, I hope so. If she does, she’ll quit that. Quit it, you hear?

[Loosening her hold] And is it a good little secretary?

Sure thing.

The best in the world?

Best in the world.

Because it’s very vain of its stenography, you see, and it thinks a perfectly good little secretary is being perfectly thrown away being wife and mother for such a horrid beast! It does think so.

Don’t I know it?

Don’t you know what?

Don’t I know it thinks so?

[With a ferocious yank] And doesn’t Willy think so?

[Climaxing with yell] Sure I do. She’s a love and a darling and hellcat and she can take two hundred to the minute and there ain’t nobody like her! Now leggo.

Will he give his secretary a kiss?—Just like he used to when she really was his secretary and there weren’t any babies and ice-men?

Come on, get it over with. [He lets her kiss him.]

And will he take her over to the band concert, just the way he used to?

Don’t you think we’d better be getting home to that kid?

Isn’t that devotion? He knows perfectly well his angel child won’t wake up till morning and the maid would take care of him if he did! Besides, I want to see Bobby, and she hasn’t come home yet, stupid. Kiss me. [She kisses him.]

I don’t know why Bobby isn’t here. She’s never as late as this. She must have had dinner downtown.

Probably had dinner with her boss. Probably planning to marry her boss.

She certainly could if she wanted to.

If she’s a sister of yours she could.

Now, Willy, explain that quick!

Me? Oh, I just meant—I just meant any relative of yours could do anything.

Not good enough, darling. Try again.

Well, you see, it’s your fatal beauty that does it. They all fall for you. Realtors, icemen, princes of Wales and Sweden, bosses—bosses especially. I used to be a boss of one of you and look at me now.

Mother dear, did father ever talk that way?

No, I don’t think he did, Florrie. When we were young, nothing was the way it is now. But he’s beginning to do it the last few years. He never even used to swear until you girls grew up—and then, he sort of learned it from you, I guess.

I bet he had to. You keep a couple of girls in the house swearing blue rings around you from morning to night and it corrupts any man’s morals. I’m getting so I swear myself.

Well, I must say Bobby never did it much. She was the sweet little thing—

She’s been making up for it since you left. I guess it’s working in an office with all those men. I used to think it was terrible but she doesn’t mean anything by it.

[In the paper] Well, when Florrie says damn—she means damn. You ought to hear her some morning when she breaks a tray of nursing bottles in the sink and spills the kid’s formula over the ice-chest. Gee, you’d think she was a vice president.

Well, that was only once, Willy.

Once was enough. I learned a lot of new words that morning.

You can read your paper now, dear.

[Who has been talking into his newspaper throughout this scene, and has not once changed his position] Uh-huh.

[Sitting above table center] Are you quite sure Bobby was coming home, mother?

Oh, she’d have telephoned.

You know, mother, somebody ought to keep an eye on Bobby. It’s so easy for a girl to drift into an affair—at that age.

[Startled] Bobby? Why, Florrie!—

Yes, really, I mean it.

Bobby’s a good girl, Florrie.

Girls are awful hypocrites, mother. And the better they are the worse they can be. I’d feel a lot safer about her if she was married.

[Still deeper in paper] Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone—fix something up between Bobby and our ice-man.

You can read your paper, darling. You aren’t so very funny.

Yes’m.

Did she turn Fred down, really? I mean, was it final?

Oh yes; but you couldn’t blame her for that—he was—well, he was over thirty—and bald—

I know. He wasn’t a very romantic figure. Neither is old Helmcke, but he has got a lot of money. Is he ever here any more?

Yes, he’s here, but he’s deaf, and after all he’s a widower. She’s just sorry for him and doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. You know he’s getting so deaf you have to write out what you want to say to him.

But he’s got a lot of money.—And who else is there?

There’s the O’Neil boy;—but he’s going to South America—

South America—! What for?

I don’t know. Just some trip he got a chance to take. You know I did think it was getting serious, but he hasn’t been here for a week or more and he’s going day after to-morrow.

Does Bobby mind?

I think she does, but her father doesn’t—and she won’t say a word.

What a nuisance! To have him go away!

He is a nice boy.

Does he make any money to speak of?

She told me he gets just as much as she does.

Oh well, they couldn’t live on his $40 a week. I wonder if Bobby sees him at the office.

I guess she sees him, but he’s so busy about this trip—

Well, I suppose that ends that—

[From the paper] Yep, looks like the boy’s got away. [The telephone rings.]

Never mind, mother. I’ll get it. [At the phone.] Yes? Yes? . . . Rims? . . . Oh, this is her sister. . . . She hasn’t come home yet. . . . Oh, Mr. O’Neil? Oh, yes. . . . Just a moment. It’s Rims O’Neil asking for Bobby.

Tell him she’ll surely be home.

[Musing] I think I’d better make it interesting for him. Was Bobby going out tonight?

Oh, no!

Hello. Why, Mr. O’Neil, she is going out tonight, but she’ll have to be in shortly to dress, you know, and if you’re nearby—yes—yes. . . . It must be a party or a dance because she couldn’t get to the theatre now. . . . Oh, I know she’d like to see you but I’m afraid she won’t have much time. . . . Well, that is a shame. . . . Oh, you are? Oh, I see. I’m sure she didn’t know . . . yes, I would tell her, of course . . . yes . . . goodbye. [She hangs up. A radio starts in the next room.]

Thin ice, my darling.

Yes?

What if they’d really had an engagement?

As if I didn’t find that out first! What an opinion he has of his secretary’s brain! Here she thinks three answers ahead of him for years and years and that’s all the good it does.

Well, Jiminetti! You could tell the kid the truth, couldn’t you?

Why, Willy, you wouldn’t want me to tell the truth to a perfect stranger? Think how it would sound.

It would have been better, Florrie—It would have been better.

Now, Mother, be a sport. I was just gambling. One last throw—Winner take all.

What a dame!

[Caught by the music] Isn’t the old bear pleased with it? It’s pleased with itself! It really is! [Leaning over the back of the chair.]

You hate yourself, don’t you?

[Moving towards right center, jazzily] Don’t it just?

Rhyme it you dancing fool, rhyme it!

Um—It never uses bad words. [The radio wails.] Poor Dad—he’s got Chinatown on that two-syllable set of his. Run in and help him, Willy.

I like it here, thanks.

But supposing I wanted to talk to mother and you were in the way?

Impossible.

Oh, quite. You have finished with the dictation, Mr. Sands?

[Feeling the pressure] That’s all. [He goes.]

Children, dishes and young husbands!

He’s such a sweet boy, Florrie, you ought to be nicer to him.

I’m a sweet girl and he ought to be nicer to me.

You really do like him, don’t you, dear?

I don’t know. Yes, sometimes I think I do. But not often.—Mother, what do you really think about this Rims boy and Bobby? Is it kind of serious?

I don’t know how it is with him—but Bobby’s been crying her eyes out.

You don’t mean you’ve actually seen Bobby crying?

No, not seen her—But when she’s been crying all night, I can tell in the morning.

Well, if it’s as bad as all that—

Oh, it is—

Why, he’ll probably keep her waiting for him for years, and then not come back at all—

I suppose so.

Or else she’ll just drift along waiting for somebody like him and the first thing we know she’ll be an old maid and a public charge.

She’s only twenty-three.

Well, wasn’t I married at twenty-three? It’s easy to get married before you’re twenty-five but afterwards try and do it. If only she wasn’t such an egg!

[Horrified] Such a what?

Such an egg!

Florrie!

I know, but she’s so unhatched, somehow—she doesn’t know her way around the block—she never did.

People do wait sometimes—sometimes they wait for years—and then it comes out all right. We waited—

Oh, I know, but that was different.

Yes, I suppose so. It was all different then.

[A door closes outside.] Maybe that’s her now. [She goes toward the hall door.]

Bobby, dear, I haven’t seen you for an age!

[Entering] Well, why should you, darling? Don’t be sloppy. Ugh, I’ve just come from the subway! Let me at the bath-tub before you kiss me.

We’ve been waiting to see you.

How’s the baby?

Wonderful.

Have you had dinner, dear?

[Taking off an orchid] I don’t know. Yes, I guess so.

You don’t know?

Yes—I was—I was in a place where they were eating. It must have been dinner.

Fascinating company?

Just the boss. Mengle.

Since when does Mr. Mengle take you to dinner?

Ever since six o’clock and it’s been a long time.

And his conversation was so charming you couldn’t think of food?

[Vague and a little bored] I hope he didn’t lay himself out to be charming because I didn’t hear a word he said.

Well, dearest, when you go to dinner with a man you ought to at least listen to him.

I’ll get him to say it over again sometime. He won’t mind. If he does he can always fire me.

Well, you needn’t have worried and spoiled poor Mengel’s evening, for Rims did telephone, if that’s what you want to know.

Rims? Rims telephoned?

I think that’s the name. Rims—Rims Murphy—

O’Neil, dear.

Oh, yes, O’Neil.

What did he say?

He wanted to know if you’d be in this evening.

Oh.

I said you were going to a dance or something, but if he came right over—

Oh, I’m not going anywhere.

Well, why tell him that? You don’t want him to think you’re sitting home weeping about him?

Why should he think I’m weeping? Did you know I wasn’t going out?

I told her you weren’t, Bobby—

Then I don’t see what occasion there was for—

Child, you’ll never know; you’ll never, never know. You’re just that innocent.

Oh—well, he’ll know I wasn’t going anywhere—because I’ll be here.

Couldn’t you change your mind? At any rate you can’t tell him you weren’t going out because I told him you were.

Couldn’t you be mistaken, dear? I think you could. I even think you were.

You would!

I think it’s perfectly silly.

You’re quite hopeless, darling—I doubt if I can do anything for you, but I can tell you this.

Yes?

If you want a man to be interested in you, let him see you going out the door with another man. And if you want a man to come running, just let him imagine you at a dance with someone else.

You’re pretty tiresome tonight, Florrie. If I cared enough about anybody to want to keep him—I’d care too much to want to keep him that way.

My God, can anybody be as young as that and live!

Well, Bobby is right, Florrie—Bobby is right!

Mother, you never grew up a day after you were married.

Well—I’m glad I’ve stayed young then.

Do you know what I want you to do?

It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t do it.

I want you to put on your prettiest party dress. You were going to a dance, you see, and then Rims’ll come in and you’ll decide not to go. It just gives you a chance to look your best. Don’t you see?

You must think I’m mad about this Rims.

Aren’t you, dear?

Not the least in the world.

Oh, well, don’t do it then. Because if you did he might ask you to marry him or something and then you’d have to turn him down and it’d be such a bother.

Yes, I know. There’s nothing like a proposal to spoil an evening. I’ve been so unfortunate that way.

Well, you have had two in a week, Bobby.

Three, mother.

Was it Mengle?

Yes, I think that’s what he was talking about a good deal of the time—whenever he wasn’t talking about the music business. The music business, by the way, is very good.

But Mr. Mengle’s married, dear.

Oh, this wasn’t a proposal of marriage. It was just a—proposal.

But Bobby—you can’t work for a man like that!

Oh, I wouldn’t say that, mother.

—No—you see, I think probably I got the job because he had hopes of me. Hope springs eternal in the employer’s breast.

What did you say to him?

I didn’t disillusion him completely. It’s better for Mr. Mengle’s hopes to go on springing eternal.

He must be a beast—

He’s a rather friendly old beast, and very considerate, really.

He didn’t mean anything, mother.

But it’s really terrible—for a young girl—

Will you put on the party dress?

I might if I had one.

The pink one!

[She pauses, looking at Florrie, decides it is not worth arguing about. She reaches in her bag and pulls out a coin] Heads or tails.

Heads!

[Flipping it] You win.

The pink dress.

Anything you say.

I must say she never would have done it if I’d asked her.

Use just the right touch and you can get her to do anything. You see, mother, she’s just a child. There’s a psychologist writing for the American that says people don’t really begin to think until they’re nearly thirty. They walk around and talk and they seem human, but they’re really practically unconscious.

I do wish you wouldn’t read the American, dear.

Well, sometimes I think it’s really true. That’s one reason why it’s easy for a girl to get married young, and not so easy afterward. The idea is to catch your man while he’s still unconscious. If he begins to think about it there really isn’t any reason why he should get married at all. And so the psychologist says the only hope for a girl is to start thinking young and that’s why girls have to be cleverer than men.

I don’t know how people ever think of such things.

He’s paid to. I could think of nearly anything if I was paid to. [There is a terrible crash of wood and metal in the next room.]

Good Heavens! Merlin what did you do to it?

[Entering from left] Nothing.

But it sounded as if—

It will sound no more, my darling. The infernal machine that wrecked our peace is forever silenced.

What have you done?

[Filling his pipe] I have murdered the entire Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra, from Stokowski to the timpani player. I tried everything else on that Goddam machine and it didn’t do any good, so I tried smashing it. From now on if we want any music we’ll go where it is.

I don’t know what’s come over you, Merlin. You’re so sudden lately.

Yeah! Toward the end of his life the human male, having learned there is nothing to be gained by gentleness and compromise, begins to assert himself. You didn’t want me to build a radio and I built it anyway. After I got it built I didn’t like it so I smashed it. If you tell me to get another one I won’t. If you tell me not to get another one I will. [Willy enters from left with a newspaper in his hand.]

It’s best not to tell him anything, mother.

Goodness knows I never tried to tell him anything.

As for Willy it wouldn’t dream of trying to tell him anything, would it?

Darling, how would I know anything if you didn’t tell me?

You wouldn’t.

Not a thing. [The telephone rings.]

[Answering it] Hello! No. Oh, hello! Oh, yes. Mr. O’Neil? Oh, I see. Yes, she is . . . I think she’s taking a bath—[Bobby pokes her head in at door up left] what? . . .

Who is it?

[Into the mouthpiece] Just a moment. [She covers the mouthpiece] It’s this Rims fellow. The one you aren’t mad about.

Let me talk to him.

No, dear. You’re supposed to be taking a bath. [Into the phone] Hello,—why, she is in the tub and I hate to—yes— Why she seemed rather particular about this engagement, but I’m sure she’ll wait if you put it that way.

[Standing up left fixing belt of wrapper] You fiend—give me that phone!

[Covering the mouthpiece] Go away, dear. [Into the phone] Just somebody cutting in, I guess.—

[Grabbing phone] Give me that phone. Hello, hello. . . . It’s Bobby. . . . I was, but I heard the telephone, and . . . Oh, Rims, that’s sweet of you, really. . . . I know you must be perfectly tied up . . . no, Rims, truly I’m not. . . . I haven’t any engagement the least in the world. . . . It was just that infernal sister of mine. . . . I don’t know, just her little joke, I guess . . . anyway, I’ll be here—yes, good-bye. [She hangs up.]

Florrie, what did you mean—

After this I’ll answer the telephone for myself, thanks.

Well, you’ve managed to ruin—

What’s the row about, girlies?

Nothing whatever.

I gather Florrie thinks Bobby’s going out tonight and Bobby thinks she isn’t.

Well, Bobby ought to know.

Now, what’s Rims going to think?

I’ll tell him exactly what happened.

Well, he won’t believe you.

Of course he’ll believe me.

You mean to say you’re coming out in that pink dress and tell him you weren’t going anywhere?

I’m not wearing my pink dress—

No? I thought I won the toss, my darling.

Let us in on it. What’s the gag?

It’s too silly to talk about. I’m sure I don’t know what Florrie thinks she’s doing. I’m going to dress.

We’re all going over to the concert.

You mean you’re maneuvering everybody out of the house just to—? Well, I won’t have it—Dad, you won’t go?

Not if you’d rather I didn’t, Bobby, but the radio’s out of commission and I did want some music.

Oh, very well.

But I’d just as soon stay, honey,—almost—

Never mind—

The pink dress!

Very well. [She goes into bedroom.]

What’s up, Florrie?

Are we going to the park?

Yes! Put something on, mother—he’s coming right over. It’s her Rims, dad—her marvellous Rims O’Neil—and we’re just clearing out to give them elbow room—

Well, if she doesn’t want us to go—

Of course she does. Only she thinks it looks too deliberate, as if he’d think of that—

I thought he’d gone to South America—

Well, he is going but he hasn’t gone yet. That’s the point, and the kids ought to have a chance to say goodbye.

Well, if that’s all—

[Coming out of paper] Say, Florrie, listen!—You remember that little house on a hundred and forty-first—the one we wanted?—

Of course, it remembers—

Well, it’s for rent—

No, not the very one—

Sure thing—the one we wanted—and reasonable too—

How much?

Sixty.

Why that’s less than our apartment. Now, why did we sign that lease?

Sixty a month for a whole house—?

Well, it’s only two rooms and a kitchen, really—

Sort of lost and forgotten among the apartment buildings—

It’s the funniest little place—

Oh, well, if it’s only two rooms.

And a garden, dad, we simply adored it—

We figured we could use part of the kitchen for a dining room, you see—

Oh, well—[To Mrs. Halevy] Listen, mother, I think I’d better wait a minute and make my peace with the kid. Take Willy with you and I’ll meet you there—

Where we always sit?

Yes, the same place.

Come on, mother.

You two run along. I’ll catch up. I want to see her a minute myself—

[Going out with Mrs. Halevy] Goodbye Bobby!

Goodbye Willy.

Bobby! Dressed yet?

[Entering left, still doing up the last few hooks of her dress] Yeah!—what is it, dad?

Anything the matter?

I guess not.

I mean, is the kid happy?

Not very. Of course I’m happy.

Well, be yourself, girlie. Don’t let anybody run over you.

All right, dad.

And, well,—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—

Tell me something you wouldn’t do.

Not a damn thing I didn’t feel like doing. So long. [He goes out.]

All right.

[Off stage] Remember that.

[To Florrie] Aren’t you going?

You don’t like me much, do you?

No.

Well, I’ll run along.

Oh, stay if you want to.

I was just trying to make things easier for you, dear. You’re in love with Rims, aren’t you?

No.

Oh, well, then I’m sorry, and it was foolish. But, gee, kiddie, you’re a rave in that dress. I wish somebody was coming you were in love with.

Thanks awfully.

Will you make it up with me, dear? Because I really thought it was good fun—

Oh, why don’t you go? Why didn’t you go with the others?

Bobby, you are in love with him.

I’m not in love with anybody that isn’t in love with me.

But he is.

No he isn’t, if he was he’d have—well, it doesn’t matter only I wish you’d go.

It’s all right, dear. I’ll go the minute he comes. And listen—he is in love with you. I know by his voice over the phone. And if you want him, dear, don’t you know you can have him?

[Looking away] He’s going to Buenos Ayres to start a branch house. It may take two years.

Don’t let him.

If he wants to go, why shouldn’t he?

Because you’re in love with each other, and you’d be much happier if he stayed here, wouldn’t you?

It doesn’t matter.

You know what will happen? He’ll fall in love with someone else.

Well, so will I, probably.

You thought he was going to ask you to marry him, didn’t you?

Yes.

And if he’d stayed a little longer he would have, wouldn’t he?

Yes.

Then he’ll ask you tonight.

No he won’t. He’s made up his mind not to.

Darling, he didn’t tell you that?

No, but I know.

Oh, if I could only be in your shoes half an hour—just half an hour—wouldn’t I get it out of him!

What would you do?

I’d tease him—till he was wild.

Well, I won’t.

I guess you’re just too good to live.

No, it isn’t that, I like him too much to cheat him into anything.

Darling, if you knew just half a dozen sentences to say that would make him propose to you, would you say them?

No, I wouldn’t.

It’s so easy—When he asks if you weren’t really going out with somebody, tell him you were going out with Fred—has he ever seen Fred?

No, but you’re just wasting your time, Florrie. [Florrie turns to table, rises, gets pad and pencil.]

Look, dear, I’m writing it down—can you read my shorthand?

I could if I wanted to—

You’re going with Fred to a dance or a supper-club—you see?—and then Rims will come in and ask you to stay with him this evening—and you’ll say yes, you’ll call it off when Fred telephones—and then I’ll telephone—isn’t it easy?

It doesn’t interest me.

Then he’ll ask you to go somewhere with him and you’ll suddenly take out your hanky and begin to cry a little and say you don’t want to go anywhere.

Me—cry—me?

Yes, darling, you. You’ll weep a little and he’ll ask you what’s the matter and try to comfort you, and—

I can’t cry on order—

Oh, yes, you can, dear.

Anyway, I never cry.

Well, he’ll ask you what’s the matter, and then you’ll say, “Oh, I’m so tired of—of everything, Rims—and I’m afraid I’m not very good company,”—and he’ll say, “Oh, yes, you are,” and he’ll put his arm around you—or would he?

How could he help it?

Well, after that it gets easier all the time—you just say, “Rims dear, sometimes you’re the only person in the world I can talk to—sometimes I can’t bear to be with anybody else”—

I simply couldn’t—

But that’s exactly what you’ve got to say—and then you go right on and say, “Rims, don’t you ever get tired of poor me,—ever?”

And then he’d say “Never,” of course.

Of course—and you say, “You’re such a darling—and it’s going to be awfully hard”—

What is?

That’s exactly what he’ll say—“What is?” and you’ll say, “Marrying somebody else!” Then he’ll draw back and say, “You getting married?” and you’ll say, “Oh, Rims, a girl has to get married sometime, you know, while she’s got chances,” and he’ll say, “How many chances do you get in a week?” or something like that, and you’ll say, “I’ve had two every other week for two weeks,” or something, and he’ll say “Now kid, you don’t mean you’ve set to marry somebody?” and then you’ll say—

Oh, no, I won’t—

Yes, you will, dear, you’ll say, “Fred wants me to marry him, and he’s awfully in love with me and I don’t want to go on working forever,” and he’ll say, “Well, if you’re getting married this season, why not marry me?”—and there you are—

No, because he wouldn’t say it—

Why not?

Because he isn’t such a sap for one thing, and for another I don’t think it’s fair and I wouldn’t do it.

My darling, how do you think people get married?

I don’t know.

I’ll say you don’t—

Honestly, do you think a person of any sense would fall for a deliberate trap like that?

Why, honeybunch, hundreds of thousands of them fall for it every year. [The doorbell rings.] There’s one coming now. I’m running along, dear. And, look, I’m leaving those notes—see?—

You’d better take them—

Shut the note-book if you feel scrupulous—you’ll probably remember the system anyway— it comes natural—Bye-bye! I’ll just pass him in the door. [She goes out.] Oh, pardon me!

[Off-stage] That’s all right!

[Off] I was just going out.

[Off] Is Miss Halevy in?

[Off] Miss Halevy? Oh yes.—Bobby!

Yes.

[Off] Someone for you—

[Off] O’Neil’s the name—

[Off] Mr. O’Neil—

Oh, Rims, come in!

[Off] Goodbye, dear—

Goodbye, Florrie—[Rims enters] Hello, Rims.

Hello, darling! Say!

You say it!

Flaming youth! Bobby, you’re a dream in that! Stand still and let me gaze at you!

You like it?

Do I? Why haven’t I seen you in that before?

I just made it.

You made it? Say, I wish you’d make my clothes for me for a while. I’d have them falling for me from the third story windows!

Oh, any old clothes will do in Buenos Ayres. They say they fall easy down there.

Yeah?

They say it’s the climate.

I’ll bet the climate can’t raise ’em any sweeter than you are because they don’t come any sweeter—Say, you were stepping out somewhere, weren’t you?

No, I wasn’t.

Sure, your sister said you had a heavy date on.

Well, I didn’t.

You’re a poor liar, kid, if that’s anything against you—

But I say I didn’t have a date—

What’s the dress for—just trying it on?

No, it was to settle a bet—

I’ll bet it was—Anyway I’m sorry for the other guy and it’s sweet of you to turn down a dance for me—

Wait a minute. I haven’t turned it down yet—

Is he coming for you?

He’s going to telephone.

Aw, give him the air, sweetheart. I want to talk to you. I haven’t seen you for a week.

All right. Only it isn’t my fault you haven’t seen me, you know—

[As he turns chair around and sits right center facing Bobby] Gee, nobody’s seen me. I haven’t been able to see myself in the mirror the rate I was travelling. I’ve learned more about the Argentine in the last week than I ever knew about New York—principal cities, population, theatres, cabarets, rates of exchange, sheet music sales, what the girls like to dance to, how late they stay up—you ought to hear old Juan giving me a quiz—

So you’re really going?

It certainly looks that way—of course, the boss hasn’t actually O.K.’d it yet but he seems to be sold on it—

Oh, so far as he’s concerned it’s going through.

How do you know?

Well, I found out.

Great stuff! Has he settled on me to go, do you know?

Oh, absolutely!

You know I don’t know a damn thing about it; old Juan’s been coaching me but I’m pretty dumb, I guess. And there’s a lot of fellows at the office that rank me for experience—But say, that’s great, kid.

Of course, it’s in confidence.—

Sure thing. How’d you find out? Dictation?

He told me.

He didn’t talk it over with you?

I had dinner with him.

Say, that’s not so good, girlie. That bird’s a pirate.

Well, I have to have dinner with somebody, don’t I? And you haven’t been giving anybody much competition—

It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, though. You know every night I’ve thought maybe I could get away and then some damn complication fixed it so I couldn’t.

Oh, I know.

You know I haven’t seen you since—Well—

Think hard.

Gosh, it seems like a month.

Just a week ago tonight.

You’re right. And Mengle sprung this thing on me the next day. You mean I haven’t seen you since that night on the bus?

Really, don’t you remember?

Gee, I’m a wash-out, girlie; this thing’s wrecked me. Say, I wish you were coming along.

Maybe Mengle’ll let you have a stenographer—

No chance, I guess. He’s doing this on a shoe-string—the way he does everything. Anyway, I’m not the boss—Old Juan’s in charge; I’m just a kind of super-cargo. They’ve got to have somebody that can write English . . . well . . . it was certainly a nice Spring while it lasted.

The best I ever had, Rims.

Me too. You know Bobby, I’ll never see a Fifth Avenue bus without thinking of you, never.

You won’t see one for a while, though.

That’s true—but a postcard of Grant’s Tomb or the Soldier’s and Sailor’s monument would do just as well—

I’ll send you one with an X to mark the spot on it.

Which spot, though? The route’s sprinkled with ’em.

Well, where you said your poem to me, for instance.

Yeah? Well, it wasn’t much of a poem if you ask me.

Rims, it was a lovely poem!

I thought it was pretty good at the time—but I guess it was pretty rank—I don’t think I’m going to try poetry again for a while—

Not till you fall in love again, I suppose.

No, that’s the kind of thing only happens once.

Anyway, it’s the only poem anybody ever wrote for me—[She says it musingly.]

You always make me think it’s good, the way you can say it—[The telephone rings] If that’s your playmate tell him you’re busy, will you?

Do you want to stick around, really?

Sure I do.

[At the telephone] Hello. Oh, yes. Why, Fred, [She turns her back on Rims] I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t go. No, really I can’t. No, don’t come over, please. It isn’t that. I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m awfully sorry. Yes. Goodbye. [She hangs up and turns to face him, radiant.] There!

You’re a brick, Bobby. Are you sure you didn’t want to go?

If I’d wanted to—I would have. [There is a pause.]

I’ve been wanting to talk to you.

What about, Rims?

Do you think it’s a good thing—me going to South America?

It’s an awfully good opening.

Well, what I mean is, don’t you think it’s a good thing for a young fellow to see the world a little when he gets a chance—just so he can kind of make up his mind what he wants to do?

Surely.

That’s why I’m going, really. Oh, I’m not sure it’s any great shakes of an opening, but I never have been much of anywhere and it’s a chance—well, it’s a kind of adventure, don’t you see?

Surely.

[At a loss] That’s why I’m going.

Yes. [A pause.]

And, kid—

Yes?

[Placing a hand on her arm] You certainly have been wonderful to me.

We did have a good Spring together, didn’t we?

You were certainly marvellous. [Bobby looks at him, and then turns away.]

Well, it’s Summer now.

Yep. But that’s no reason you shouldn’t give me a kiss, is it?

I guess not. [They kiss.] Maybe you’d better run along, Rims.

Why so, sweetie? The night’s young.

Well—[She looks down and her eye falls on Florrie’s notebook. She looks at it fascinated. There is a pause.]

[Lightly] What you studying, Bobby?

Nothing. Only—oh, I’m so tired of everything, Rims, and I’m afraid I’m not very good company.

Oh, yes, you are.

Rims, dear—

Yes.

[She looks back at book] Rims, sometimes you’re the only person in the world I can talk to. Sometimes I can’t bear to be with anybody else.

Gee, kid.

Rims, don’t you ever get tired of poor me, ever?

Never, I should say not.

You’re such a darling.

Well, I wouldn’t say that.

But you are, [She turns and glances at the notebook] and it’s going to be awfully hard. [A pause.]

What is, sweetheart?

Marrying somebody else.

You getting married? [His hand drops from her shoulder]

Oh, Rims, a girl’s got to get married sometime you know, while she’s got chances.

I suppose you get chances all right.

Yes.

Do they come fast?

I’ve had two—every other week, for two weeks.

Say, look here, you don’t mean you’re making up your mind to marry somebody in particular?

Well, Fred wants me to marry him, and he’s awfully in love with me, and I don’t want to go on working forever.

I see. Yeah, I see. I didn’t know you felt that way.

[Breaking away] Well, I don’t, really. I was just—I was just joking. You’d better go, dear. I wouldn’t marry anybody. I wouldn’t marry—anybody. Not even you.

You wouldn’t?

No, I wouldn’t!

Oh, yes, you will. I mean—

Do you want me too?

Sweetheart—I don’t want anything else. [They kiss.]

[Breaking away and crying on his shoulder] But you’re—you’re going to South America—

[Still holding her] South America can go to the devil—! Somebody else can go to South America!

CURTAIN

ACT TWO

[Off left] Where the devil are my pipe cleaners?

I should know.

Well, I certainly put some here and I didn’t move ’em.

Oh, dear, I took all the things off that desk because I had to set the lamp somewhere when the folks came—

[Off] I knew you took ’em.

Why, Rims, I didn’t take them. I moved them because I had to. What do you think I did with them?

[Off] I give up.

[Going in to help him] Silly. I’ll find them.

Oh, hell, I’m all out of tobacco. Where’s my cigarettes?

[Re-entering] Oh, here they are. Mine were all gone.

Gosh, there’s only one left.

[She picks up her cigarette] That’s all right. I’ve got one.

Yeah, but I had half a package here.

I know. I asked you to bring me some last night, but I guess you forgot it.—

[Lighting cigarette] Well, I didn’t really forget it, only I was running so low on cash—

But you got paid to-day.

Yeah, only I did forget ’em this afternoon.

You see. I thought sure you’d bring some, dear.

[Throwing match in ash tray, and smoking contentedly] It’s all right.

I don’t see how you could be low in cash. You don’t eat it all, do you?

What do you expect on five dollars a week?

You never seem to have any money.

Well, now, the truth is, I took a couple of passes at peanuckle last week, and they ruined me.

But, Rims, if you do that—

Hell, I’m not dead yet, you know.

We’ve got to stick to the budget, dear, or we’ll never come out even. I’ve been over everything this afternoon and it’s awfully close figuring.

We’re going to be lucky if we get by.

[Flashing] I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Rims. There’s no luck about it. It’s just figures. [She gets out her account book.] Listen—this is the way it adds up.

Say, kiddie, spare me the horrible details.

No, it’s the treasurer’s report—you’ve got to hear it or we can’t co-operate.

You know I’ve tried that and it doesn’t do any good.

But you didn’t stick to it, then!

Hell, I couldn’t. Every time I thought I had it all worked out some damn thing would come along and sink me for a month. I know.

Well, listen, anyway.

All right.

Well, we get $240 a month and when there’s five weeks in a month we get $300.

Sounds like too much money—how much is it in a year?

Don’t interrupt. Two hundred and forty a month and out of that we pay sixty for rent, about thirty-five for groceries, forty on the furniture, twenty for your allowance, ten insurance, about six for gas and light, and about three for ice. And it comes to a hundred and seventy-four.

You must have left something out.

[Still intent] Please! A hundred and seventy-four from two hundred and forty leaves sixty-six dollars—

Then how do I happen to be broke all the time?

Of course, if it doesn’t interest you—

Sure it interests me, Bobby. You know, I’ve got a great idea, girlie. How about a little game of black jack for that sixty-six dollars?

Rims, you idiot! If you don’t take me seriously I’ll never—never—You can take care of your own dirty old money! I can earn some for myself!

Ah, take it easy, Bobby. I was only fooling.

Will you really listen?

Sure I will! Geez, I’ve been listening.

Oh, it isn’t any use. You don’t think it matters . . . but I know it does.

[Mock-serious] Don’t I know it matters? Why, kid, if you can figure out how we can save sixty-six a month—well—you’re good.

I didn’t say we could save that much. We have to use that for clothes and dentist and doctor’s bills and extras—

No, say, there’s certainly something wrong here—

But just a minute. I know we’ll just throw it away and never know where it goes if we don’t use some system, so I want you to write down everything you spend and I’ll do the same and every evening we’ll go over it—

I see a long row of pleasant evenings ahead—

But I mean it, dear. I’ve been thinking about it all day.

[Definite] Well, that part’s out.

What part?

[He puts out his cigarette] About writing it all down. That’s out. No, thanks. I knew a guy that did that.

I think it’s very sensible.

[Flaring up] And make me accountable to you for every cent I spend?

Oh, is that the way you look at it?

That’s what it amounts to, isn’t it?

[Rising] Well, then, I guess we won’t discuss the matter any further. I’ll finish the dishes. [Pause.]

[Taking notebook and studying it] No, wait a minute. There’s something away out here.

[Busy with the dishes] It doesn’t matter.

Well, look here! Where do you get that two forty a month stuff? We don’t get any two forty a month.

I’ve gone over and over everything.

I know, but you’re wrong. I get forty dollars a week. Four times forty’s just 160 . . . [A pause.]

Oh! . . oh . . . oh, what a fool! I know what I did—but I could never tell you—I must have put down sixty a week to start—but you’d never see how I could—

It makes a hell of a big difference, I’ll say—

Oh, I’m such a fool. It was just because Mengle had spoken of a raise—and I started to figure it on the basis of a new salary—and then I forgot and thought I’d started with forty dollars—no, I can’t see how I did it! [Suddenly face to face with it.] Well, then, there’s just no use, you see. We get 160 and our expenses are 174 and—

Well, that’s round numbers, you know.

We’ve just got to cut everything away down. Rims, we can’t live on 160 a month.

Well, some months it’s more. Extra pay-days.

I suppose that’s what’s saved us so far.

And then I’m going to get more, too, you know.

I hope so.

And, I do—I do appreciate it—you’re taking the trouble to figure it all out—only it’s a kind of a blow too. [He rises.] I didn’t know it was so close. Gosh, I never used to have any money troubles to speak of—I just ran along—

Well, so did I. I wish I hadn’t quit my job.

Well, we both couldn’t work in the same office after we got married. It doesn’t go somehow.

It would have been embarrassing, but—it wouldn’t really matter.

Well, I’d mind if you didn’t. It would make it look as if I weren’t man enough to—to support my wife.

How I hate that word.

What word?

Wife! I won’t be a wife! It sounds so fat and stupid! I wish we hadn’t got married! I wish you’d gone to South America.

—Well, you haven’t got anything on me.

[Gently] No, I didn’t mean that, dear. It’s not true.

As a matter of fact, I meant to go to South America.

I know.

And then I went to see you—and I guess I just had to have you—that’s all.

[Burying her head on his shoulder] No, it was me. I had to—have you. It was my fault.

[Holding her close] No, I knew what I was doing all right. And hell, I—I still feel that way. You look like a million dollars to me every time I see you.

[Looking up at him] Darling, you do love me, don’t you?

Honest, kid, nobody ever loved anybody the way I love you. I’m just silly about you. I think about you all day long. And then I come home at night and—[He turns away] we get into some goddam mess—and it just shoots the works—

I know. It’s just the same way with me. I think all day how marvellous it’s going to be when you come home—and then you get here—and I don’t know—it isn’t marvellous at all—It’s just a house and we’re just married people—and—sometimes I hate it—everything’s getting spoiled—

I guess it’s mostly relatives and—money.

And pipe cleaners and clothes—and meals and—dishes—oh, I haven’t touched those dishes yet—

Anyway, you’re marvellous, kid. You really are.

Even when I’m doing dishes?

Even when you’re doing dishes. And just to prove it I’m going to help you with them.

I don’t want you to have to do dishes.

Gee, I wish you didn’t have to.

I even wish you never had to see me doing dishes. I almost wish I was somebody else’s wife—so you could be my lover—and come to see me when he wasn’t home—

Well, I don’t know about that—

No, not really, I mean: but don’t you see it would be better—because you’d always like me then—and you’d always want to see me and we’d have to scheme and meet places and you’d hate the old brute that owned me.

The only trouble is I’m the old brute that owns you—

Only you’re not an old brute—but if you were—oh, I’d have the handsomest, dearest lover—just like you!

I guess you mean it for a compliment so it’s all right—

Oh, I do. He’d be wealthy, you see—

Who would?

The brute would, and I’d have all the men in the world to choose from—and I’d take Rims.

If you feel that way, what do we care if we’re poor.

Ain’t it the truth?

[His arms round her] And you can lose my pipe-cleaners and add up wrong and have relatives to dinner and smoke my cigarettes forever and I won’t get mad.

I guess it was me got mad. I always do.

Compared to me you never get mad.

[Smiling and going back to the dishes] Only I don’t think my relatives are so very terrible, do you?

I guess not. No more’n most relatives.

And they don’t come here so very often, do they?

Well, they were here last night.

Yes.

And the night before that. And the night before that.

Yes, it is true. It’s partly because Florrie helped plant the garden.

You know the old man’s all right, but that sister of yours does kind of give me the pip, and what that Willy boy ever married her for is more than I can figure out. They actually think they own this place just because they saw it first.

[Going to him] Darling, as soon as the lease runs out we’ll move.

When do we pay the rent?

It’s due day after tomorrow.

Could it wait?

It won’t have to. With to-day’s money we can just do it.

Well, I was going to ask you—they’re having a stag blow-out for old Juan—he’s just back from South America and he’s retiring and the boys are getting him something, chipping in, you know. Do you think I could take five out of the rent money? It’s two dollars a plate and they’re chipping in about three.

Now, why should you give Juan anything?

Well, he was pretty good to me, Bobby—and after the way I dropped out of the South America thing I don’t want to look like a crab.

When is it?

Wednesday.

Wednesday? Really?

Yeah.

That’s funny.

Why?

Guess who called me up to-day?

Fred?

No. . . . Mengle.

The boss—? What did he want?

Well, first he wanted to know if I’d come back and work for him—

[Belligerently] Oh, he did, did he? I’d like to see you—

Well, I said no, and he said, “Come down and see me sometime,” and I said, “All right,” and he said “Why don’t you come and have dinner sometime,” and I said, “No, thanks,” and he said, “How about Wednesday night?”

What did you tell him?

I told him I’d call up and let him know.

Why didn’t you tell him to go to the devil?

Well, I’d been going over these figures and I thought if our income was doubled—how easy it would be—and if I just took my job back—

Get this from me right now, kid. I won’t have you sitting in Mengle’s private office taking dictation. It was bad enough before we were married.

Well, I guess I’ll do as I please about that, my dear.

You will not! You’ll do as I tell you.

[Icily] I might if you asked me nicely, but—

I’m not asking you! I’m telling you, and that’s once for all! And you won’t go to dinner with him, either!

I didn’t intend to go to dinner with him, but if you say you won’t let me, I certainly will.

Oh, no, you won’t.

Yes?

Yeah, that’d put me in a nice position, wouldn’t it? Me at the banquet and you dining alone with Mengle.

Well, I’ve had dinner with him before and it didn’t seem to hurt your position much.

That was before we were married!

Well, Good God, what’s the difference?

You know damn well what’s the difference.

Oh dear, we’re quarreling again—over nothing.

You call that nothing! Anyway, what the hell do I care if we are? I come home here every evening just because you’re here—and what thanks do I get for it? They had a game going over at Perry’s and I certainly wish I’d gone.

I certainly wish you had. I suppose you come home every evening just to keep me company—because you’re afraid I’ll be lonely—

Sometimes I do.

Well, go to your game. I won’t be lonely. Any time you don’t come home I can amuse myself plenty.

All right!

I had a bid out myself to-night if you want to know.

Who was it?

Don’t you wish you knew?

Was it Mengle?

No it was Fred. He said he was all alone at the club party to-night and he wished I was going to be there.

Are you going?

Why, darling, I was staying home to keep you company. But I wouldn’t mind seeing another man once in a while—now that’s the truth. [The door-bell rings] I wonder who that is?

You know all right. It’s that sister of yours and her Willy boy. That’s who it always is.

Rims! [She goes out to open the door. Rims puts on his coat and drops a paper from his pocket.]

[At the front door] Oh, there you are. We were just going round to the back.

[In the front room] Hello, Florrie. Hello, Willy.

[Off] I didn’t want to come, Bobby, but she made me.

[Off] Willy, you’re making me furious!

[Off] I know damn well they don’t want a lot of old married folks running in on ’em at all hours.

[Off] Come on out to the kitchen—we’re just finishing the dishes. [Bobby re-enters, bringing Florrie and Willy.]

Hello, Rims, darling.

[Over his shoulder] Hello.

Hello, Rims.

Hello.

Such a heavenly night you never saw! And a lovely, lovely moon.

That wasn’t any moon. That was a street lamp.

Oh, all right, grumpie, there wasn’t any moon. There, doesn’t that prove I love him? Because there really is a moon.

There is not.

I know, dear. I’m always wrong. And all the North and South streets do run east and west, and the sun does rise over New Jersey, just as you said. What did you ever marry me for if you don’t like me?

Yeah, this is a fine time to ask me that.

I wish I had a perfect husband like Rims, that never got sulky. Rims, when I get my divorce, will you marry me? Shall we fly together?

I’m going out and get some cigarets.

Mind if I come along?

Nope.

Well say, come back after me, do you hear?

[Following Rims out] Yeah!

Well, darling. Did I hear sounds of family revelry,—and is the husband in a vile mood?—not really?

What did you hear?

Only the breaking of furniture and the fall of crockery. Who wins this evening?

Who wins?

Why yes. The evening row.

I guess neither of us won. I guess we both lost.

Then it’s a draw, stupid. Only why take it seriously. It’s the one that takes it seriously that loses.

It’s not funny, Florrie.

You child—it is funny. You’re going through a period of adjustment and it’s always funny. There’s a man writing for the American—

Yes, I know—

Well, he says, there’s always a period of adjustment before it’s settled who’s to boss the other one, and the period of adjustment is just one long series of rows.

I see.

[Sighing] Willy and I are nearing the end of our period of adjustment. Willy still struggles.

Then—I guess I don’t want to be married. If it’s like that.

Of course you want to be married, my dear. We all want to be married. We want somebody to take care of us. Women can talk all they please about living their own lives—I don’t believe it. It’s all sour grapes.

It isn’t sour grapes with me. It—it just kills me to quarrel with him—and it’s always happening! Florrie, I don’t know what to do.

There’s nothing to do. It’s quite usual.

You mean people always quarrel when they’re married, even when they’re in love, madly in love?

Well, I never knew a case where they didn’t.

It can’t be true.

Naturally you don’t go on being madly in love forever. Not if you’re married to the person.

But why?

Silly, you get to know him so well and he knows you so well. You can be sort of in love with your husband but not madly in love with him.

Then I don’t want to be married. Because I want to be madly in love.

No doubt you wish Rims had gone to Buenos Ayres.

No.

Well, he’s yours, my dear, and he was the one you wanted, so why worry about it?

I know it can’t go on the way it is. He’ll leave me or I’ll leave him—or something will happen. We want to be together and then as soon as we are together,—it’s no use. [She rises] We always say the wrong things—

Then, do you know what I think?

No.

I think it’s time for you to begin having a baby.

But if we don’t get along together now—

It makes everything different. It makes you so much more important, don’t you see?

I don’t want to be important.

You want to be important to Rims, don’t you?

Yes.

Well, if you’re having his baby you instantly become the most important thing in the world to him. Men are funny that way. They take so much credit and they feel so responsible, it’s pathetic. So long as you don’t have a baby Rims is really free, you see—and he might get tired of you—but just you tie him down with two or three good fat ones—and he’ll stay. Willy used to get rebellious, but not any more. Not since the baby.

But that’s terrible.

What is?

To keep a man that way.

It’s been going on a long time, my dear. I wasn’t the first to think of it.

You mean that’s why women have children?

Why, surely.

But they want to have them.

Oh, yes. I suppose, partly they want to keep their husbands because they want to have children, and partly they want to have children because they want to keep their husbands. Anyway, it works.

It wouldn’t—with us.

You’re just like the rest of us. It’s a scientific fact. It works. Some morning you’ll tell Rims it’s going to happen, and all of a sudden everything will change. He’ll bring you things and mother you, and smother you with kisses, and he’ll be humble and happy and—well, you see, there’s no arguing about a thing like that—

Oh, but I couldn’t let it happen without telling him first.

Why not?

He might not like it.

He’ll like it after it happens.

But I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be honest.

Of course, he mustn’t ever know it wasn’t an accident.

We’d have to talk about it.

Really.

Yes.

Well, he’d say no, and that would be the end of that.

That’s what I think.

Unless—unless you did it—in a special way.

Is it another scheme?

Scheme?

Like the—the questions on the pad?

Well, didn’t that one work out?

Yes, only I wish I’d never done it. I wish it had happened some other way.

It couldn’t have and you know it. Wait till some time when he’s just crazy about you—you know—and then say—

Don’t say it, please!

If you think he’d see through it, dear, you’re wrong. It’s appalling what they never see through.

Oh, I wish we hadn’t talked about it!

Well, it may not be necessary yet. But any time you’re really afraid of losing him, I’d say—[The door bell rings. Bobby goes into the living room to answer it.]

Well, I’ve got to go anyway.

[In the living room] Just the old man.

[Still outside] Oh, hello, Dad! I couldn’t think who it would be—Where’s mother? [Florrie rises, finds on the floor the paper Rims dropped from his pocket, and reads it.]

[Outside] She was tired. She went to bed early.

[Outside] Come on out. Florrie’s here.

[Entering] Hello, Florrie. [Bobby enters behind him.]

Hello, grandfather.

Shut up that grandfather stuff!

[In her sweetest baby talk] Why, you precious old dear, are you ashamed of being a grandfather?

Wait till you’re a grandmother, and you’ll know how I feel. If there’s anything more humiliating than having squalling children it’s having squalling grand-children.

But he doesn’t squall!

Of course not. He coos.

He’s really a love, daddy. Imagine your never coming to see him! Not that I mind really. Bobby, I’ll have to run along without Willy. You can tell him when he comes back. Something I found on the floor. [She hands Bobby the paper.]

[Laying it down] Thanks,—I’m sorry you have to go.

You’d better look at that. It’s an I. O. U. Somebody owes Rims some money.

[Looking at the thing] Owes Rims money?

Well, it’s an I. O. U.

Oh.

Don’t let the boy gamble, dear. Well, goodbye. Why don’t you come over sometime? We always come to see you and you never come to see us.

We will, Florrie, goodbye. [Florrie goes.]

[Lighting a cigar] Well, kiddie, how’s things?

Dad, what’s an I. O. U. for?

You mean you don’t know?

I knew people gave them—but how would Rims happen to have one.

I’d say he’s lucky—if it’s any good.

He couldn’t have lent anybody money—because he didn’t have it to lend.

Then he won it.

But he didn’t tell me.

Why should he tell you everything, child? Do you think you own the boy just because he’s married to you?

But it’s for twenty-seven dollars, and to think of his not saying a word about it and we’ve been talking budget all evening—

Well, ask him, ask him.

Dad—

Yes?

Do you think—? I don’t know—

All right—what’s on your mind?

Do you think—I ought to have a baby? [A pause]

[A whisper] What!

Do you think I ought to have a baby? [Mr. Halevy looks at her—then looks away and smiles.]

Jesus look down! How old are you, girlie?

Please don’t be foolish.

Yes, I suppose you are old enough. That was the wrong thing to say. But looking back at my beautiful wasted youth—why anybody should want to have a baby—why anybody should even want to get married—is more than—I can ever understand.—From me, my dear, I fear you will get nothing but ribald advice and evil counselling. I’d better go home.

No, don’t go. This is serious!

Bobby. I married young and brought up two lovely children. I can’t say I regret it, but there are moments, and those moments occur more frequently now that I’m a grandfather, when it appears to me that Don Juan and Casanova chose the better part.

Yes, I suppose that’s true if you’re a man, but I’m not.

I used to wish you were.

Why?

Now, don’t ask me to talk seriously on this topic, my dear. After all, I’m your father and I know my duty. If I said, “No, don’t have any babies,” you’d ask me if I was sorry we had you and Florrie, and I couldn’t think of an adequate reply. Anyway, fathers shouldn’t confide in their daughters. It isn’t hundred per cent—. No doubt it would be considered a kind of intellectual incest. But I can tell you lies by the yard—

Then you think having a baby—would be a mistake?

I didn’t even want you to get married.

You didn’t say anything—

I came near it—the night you and Rims fixed it up. I was afraid it was going to happen.

Oh.

Do you know how fathers feel about their daughters when they’re growing up?

No.

Well, they think—when they think about it—here I have two good-looking virtuous girls, and I’m putting in my whole life raising them up, feeding them, sending them to school—and for what? All for the service and delight of two unknown and probably disagreeable young men. So I used to wish I had sons, because they could have a good time at any rate. And then it occurred to me there was no reason why girls shouldn’t have a good time.

How do you mean?

Fall in love—have your affair—and when it’s over—get out!

Oh!

I told you I’d better go home.

But why not have a love affair—and get married?

Marriage is no love affair, my dear. It’s little old last year’s love affair. It’s a house and bills and dishpans and family quarrels. That’s the way the system beats you. They bait the wedding with a romance and they hang a three-hundred-pound landlord around your neck and drown you in grocery bills. If I’d talked to you that night I’d have said—if you’re in love with him, why have your affair, sow a few oats. Why the devil should the boys have a monopoly on wild oats?

Yes, I see.

No, I shouldn’t say that. Marriage is fine, kiddie, it’s grand. It’s the corner stone of progress. It’s the backbone of civilization. Don’t you believe anything against it.

Please, dad.

But if I had talked to you that night, I’d have said, you’re too young to get married. You haven’t had any fun yet. He hasn’t money enough to support you. Why should he support you? You’re his economic equal.

Maybe I should have gone on working.

Yes, and if you had gone on working and he didn’t support you, why take his name and label yourself? I don’t see it. . . . No, I shouldn’t talk that way. I take it back.

I might have lost him.

Not so surely as you’ll lose him now. It used to be a love affair, didn’t it?

Yes.

What is it, as is?

Grocery bills—mostly.

I’m—I’m sorry.

Then—then why didn’t mother lose you?

Well, maybe she did. And maybe I lost her. Of course we stayed around. We had children.

And—didn’t you like having children?

Now, to be honest—children do get you—they do get you. I have to admit that,—and I suppose a man wants to have children—just to prove he’s all right. Before you have children you’re afraid something’s the matter with you—yes, and after you have them, you’re sure of it. But—you don’t go away. You see, you start one baby, just as a kind of experiment, and then you find it’s a life sentence. [Pause] For both of you.

But—if you have a husband—and you want to keep him all your life long—then maybe a baby is the best thing—isn’t it?

You scheming little devil!

It’s true, isn’t it?

Oh, yes, it’ll hold him, and you too.

You don’t understand me, dad. I’m young and foolish—and Rims is everything in the world to me and I’m afraid I’ll lose him. I can’t help being young and foolish. [The door bell rings.]

No, I suppose not.

So I guess I’ll make it—a life sentence.

All right.—Only think it over. [The bell rings again. Bobby goes out to the door.]

[Outside] Hello, Bobby. It’s only us again.

Why Florrie, come in.

I just happened to meet Willy and he said he had a message for you. [She enters, followed by Bobby and Willy.] That is, Rims asked him to tell you he’d be home late.

Oh. Oh, yes.

Why, you see, he got a chance to get into a little game, so he told me to tell you to look for him when you saw him coming—

Oh.

Never mind, dear. They all get that way sometimes. Give him rope.

Sure, give him plenty of rope. That’s always the best plan. And, by the way, Florrie, I may be out late tomorrow night. Don’t look for me—

No, you don’t, darling.

I thought not.

Why, Willy, you know you always go out when you really want to—

Well, as I often say, I wouldn’t have known it if you hadn’t told me.

[In her father’s arms] Dad!

It’s all right, dear.

I—I don’t think he likes me any more.

Sure, he likes you. He’d better like you, or I’d horsewhip him. Upstart cub!

Oh, no, dad, he’s—

I’d like to know what he’s ever done to deserve a girl like my Bobby.

No,—I’m not good enough for him, dad—you don’t know him.—[Rims enters by the back door.]

I don’t have to know him.

Why, Rims—Hello!

[Crossing to the living room] Hello.

Well, can we do anything for you, Rims? Kill a fatted calf, or something? [There is no answer. A chair falls over, and a pile of books slide to the floor.]

[In living room] God damn it!

[Going to the door] Can’t I help you?

No.

[Going into the living room] There’s nothing in that closet but your overcoat—

I’m just looking for something.

All right. [She re-enters and picks up the I. O. U. Rims comes in, evidently hunting for something.] Were you looking for this, Rims?

Where was it?

Why—

Yeah, I know damn well where it was and so do you! It was in my coat pocket!

Maybe it was. I don’t know.

I’ll bet you don’t.

Why, Rims, darling, what a thing to say to little wifie!

[Turning on her] Baby talk!

And I suppose you never talk baby talk.

No!

[Turning to leave] It was on the floor, Rims. You ought to take better care of your valuable papers. Well, Bobby, I’ll be running along. [He goes.]

Oh, stay! Spend the night! I’m going.

What a charming manner he has with guests.

[Going out] Keep out of it, can’t you? It’s none of your affair.

Bobby, I’ll run along! And Rims, you’re just a love, just a perfect love. [She goes out.]

Yeah, I always liked you too! You’ve got a grand family, take it all round . . . can’t understand why your mother wasn’t here . . . well. So long. [He crosses to the door, then pauses.] You probably want to know where I got that I. O. U.

[Looking away] No.

Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I got it playing blackjack. I guess I’ve got a right to a game even if I am married . . . you don’t need to look so tragic. I always played cards and I’ll do it some more.

I don’t mind anything except you said you needed money—and you had some.

Sure. I know. You think you’ve got a mortgage on everything I get. . . . That’s why you want me to write it down on a book. So you won’t miss anything.

Why do you have to be nasty about it?

I’m not being nasty. I’m telling you a few things. You do as you please, you go to dinner with Mengle, you take back your job with him and as good as tell me if I don’t like it I can go chase myself. Well then, by God, I’ll do as I please. . . . Anyway, I didn’t get that twenty-seven free and clear. I got an I. O. U. for 27 and I gave one for 29. I was two dollars in the hole . . . I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to . . . I’m not used to telling anybody everything.

Well, don’t worry about it, dear. Run along, and have a good time—

You know, I haven’t got anything against you—only I’m just not used to it, that’s all.—I guess it’s all right. I’m the earning end and you’re the paying end and we’ve got to work together. Only it comes kind of hard. . . .

It surely comes hard to me, Rims.

Aw, I’m not going. [He throws his hat on a chair.]

Why not? Run along. Have a good time.

How can I have a good time—if you don’t say goodbye to me?

Goodbye.

Ah, kid . . . kiss me goodbye. [She is silent. He turns again.]

Rims! [He drops his hat again and she throws herself into his arms.]

You know, I think it’s that sister of yours. Every time she comes in the house, I see red. I don’t like your family. That’s the truth.

I wish I didn’t have any family. I wish there was just you and me—

Everybody ought to be born orphans.

Rims, do you really like me, or are you just being kind to me?

You know darn well I’m crazy about you. But, hell, the way everybody goes blooey—

Well then I don’t care how things go.

[Holding her] Sweetheart! . . . Well, I guess I ought to be getting along, kid. The fellows are waiting for me.

Don’t—don’t go quite yet—

All right.

Don’t you think, there must be something wrong, dear? Or else we’d be happier?

I don’t know. We’re pretty happy.

No,—no, we’re not.

Well, maybe you’re right.

Maybe—maybe we ought to have a baby.

Good God, girl! I guess we’ve got trouble enough—you think I want to join the chain gang? A baby! Say, did you ever see a kid you didn’t want to run from?

I just thought maybe—we’d like each other better—

For the love of Mike! . . . Say, kid, are you—? Are you?

No; oh, no!

Well, I’m glad of that. That would—make it different.

Would it, dear?

Would it?

Rims—if you knew what I wanted, more than anything else, would you let me have it?

I guess it—it would depend.

Rims, dear, when a woman’s truly in love with a man—and believes in him, why then what she wants most of anything—is to have a baby with him—a baby that would be just ours—

Why, darling—gosh, kid—why—you see, we couldn’t afford—say, I didn’t know you felt that way—but if you—if you do—

No, I can’t do it! I can’t go through with it!

What do you mean?

[Turning on him] What do I mean? I was roping you in. That’s what I mean—and I can’t do it! I was afraid I might lose you, that’s all, and I thought I could keep you if we—if there was a—

Oh, you were roping me in?

Yes, but I won’t do it. I won’t keep you that way. If I can’t keep you on the level, why, I’ll just have to lose you—

I see.

Because—I love you too much—

Did somebody put you up to that or did you invent it for yourself?

No.

No what?

I just—thought of it.

No you didn’t. It’s not like you. Somebody put you up to it.

Well, forget it.—I’ve been keeping you—

[Fiercely] If it was that sister of yours—

Well, what if it was? I’m being honest with you now anyway. I’m going to be so honest it hurts. It isn’t the first time I tried to trick you. I tricked you into marrying me.

When?

When you asked me to marry you. Didn’t you see it?

No.

Well, it was obvious enough.

Did she put you up to that too?

It doesn’t matter. I did it.

All right, I’ve got her number. And yours too. It’s the last time you put anything over on me—

I don’t want to put anything over on you. If I’d wanted to. I could have, couldn’t I?—and I didn’t!

Listen, kid—I think we’re going to have a showdown right here and now! A fellow gives up a lot when he gets married. As long as he’s single, he owns the earth, but when he’s married his money’s not his own, his time’s not his own, he’s got to keep on working whether he wants to or not, and there’s hell to pay if he spends an extra dime. Whenever I tired of my job I used to quit—if I didn’t like one town I tried another—and now I can’t—

Why not?

Because I’ve got a wife—because I’ve got a family?

Good God—am I a family? I won’t be a wife—I won’t be a family! I’m just me!

All right, be yourself!

All right, I’ll be myself—and if you think a man gives up a lot when he gets married, a girl gives up something when she gets married, and don’t you forget it! I spend the whole day here taking care of this damned house for you and cooking your meals and washing your dishes and never going anywhere because we can’t afford it—and every time I get a dime for myself I have to ask for it! It’s degrading!

It’s your own home.

It’s not mine. It’s all yours. You earn the money so it’s all yours! I tell you it’s despicable! Asking!

Throw it up to me I don’t earn enough! That’s right!

Well, you don’t!

You knew how much I was earning when you married me. If you don’t like it, why see what you can do about it!

Oh! Oh! Well I know what I can do about it!

Well, you won’t work for Mengle! If it’s my house I’m going to have my way in it, and I won’t have my wife working for Mengle! I give up a good deal to keep this damn place going and it’s going to be the way I want it from now on—

Oh, it will! Well, I still know my way to the front door! I guess I know when I’ve got enough! [She goes into front room.]

Where are you going? [Bobby stops in the arch, turns, and faces him.]

[Screaming] You can wash your own dishes! The hot water’s in the right hand tap! I’m running along! And I’m not coming back! [She storms out.]

[Calling] You mean you’re leaving me?

[In the living room] If you don’t believe it, you watch me!

[Picking up his hat and coat] All right. Suits me. Two can play at that game. I’m not stopping you. Got any money?

[Re-entering with her coat and hat on] I’ve got the rent money.

If you go to work for Mengle I quit him!

[Picking up her pocket book] I don’t care where you work. It’s a free country. Goodbye. [She goes out through the living room; the door slams.]

Goodbye. [He goes out the back door, slamming it. After a moment he comes in, shaken and humbled.] Bobby! [There is no answer. He turns off the kitchen light and goes out. The light in the living room still burns. Bobby comes back through the living room.]

Rims! Rims, dear! [No answer. She turns slowly, crosses to the living room and goes out again, switching off the light. The front door closes.]

CURTAIN

ACT THREE

[Outside] Are you in yet, miss? [She enters, switches on the lights and goes across to close the window, muttering.] Never knew a girl wasn’t a born fool. Leaves her window up with all these robberies—gets all my curtains dirty—[She inspects a pair of stockings drying on a towel rack.] T’ain’t decent! [A door bell rings below.] [She looks at the second pair.] Another pair.

[From the basement] Mrs. Gorlik!

What do you want?

[From basement] Man on his way up to see Miss Halevy.

What?

Man here to see Miss Halevy.

She ain’t here.

He’s on his way up.

Well, tell him the second floor.

Second floor, mister!

[On the stairs] Looking for Miss Halevy’s room.

This is her room, but I don’t know when she’ll be in.

[Entering] That’s all right, I’ll just wait for her. I suppose I can wait for her?

You mean you’ll wait here?

Well not necessarily here—if you’d rather I waited somewhere else.

I don’t know when she’s coming back, and I don’t know as you’d better wait.

What’s that?

I said, I don’t know as you’d better wait.

Well you see I always decide these matters for myself, my dear Miss—

[Positive] Mrs. Gorlik.

Yes. Well you see, Mrs. Gorlik, I’m Miss Halevy’s father. Now, if you’d rather I waited in the parlor—

There ain’t any parlor.

[Smiling] Don’t apologize, Mrs. Gorlik. And don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly all right.

Well, if you’re her father—

I am.

Then I should say it’s a very good thing you came.

Yes? [He takes out his pipe.]

Because she needs looking after.

You don’t say.

[Seeing his pipe] You can’t smoke here, you know. Not a pipe.

I beg your pardon. And so you think she needs looking after?

She certainly does.

What makes you think so?

I can tell. When they come here looking for rooms late at night and when they have middle-aged gentlemen to call like she done last night—and when they smoke cigarettes—well—I can tell. [The door-bell again.]

Then you—you won’t mind if I wait—

[From the basement] Mrs. Gorlik.

What do you want?

Another gentleman to see Miss Halevy.

I’ll be right down! [She goes out.]

He’s coming up!

[Outside] Are you the gentleman to see Miss Halevy?

[Outside] Miss Halevy hell, I’m here to see Mrs. O’Neil. [He enters and sees Mr. Halevy.]

There ain’t any Mrs. O’Neil here. And besides—[She stops, seeing they know each other.]

Hello, Rims.

Hello. [Mrs. Gorlik goes.]

Bobby coming in soon?

I don’t know.

Because if she is I’ll run along. I didn’t know you two’d got together.

Me? I haven’t seen her.

Oh, I see.

Yeah. I came in on the chance she might be here.

So did I.

You know when I first came in, I thought you were Mengle.

Well, how is Mengle for looks?

I’m no judge. I hate the face off him.

What made you think he might be here?

That’s all right.

Maybe you under-estimate Bobby.

You think so?

Or, maybe I under-estimate you. What made you think Mengle might be here?—[Rims doesn’t answer.] All right!

[Rising] Listen, do you think I’ve been having an easy time these last three weeks?

I don’t know.

Maybe you think I’ve been having the time of my life. My wife’s left me. Now’s my chance to step out, I suppose—why not? She does.

That’s funny!

Yeah!

Because if there was any one thing in the world she wanted it was you.

How do you know?

I know.

Listen, Mr. Halevy. I called her up. She said I can’t see her. Then I tried having some fun, but it wasn’t any good. I don’t want to play cards. I don’t want anything else in the world except her. And—she’s gone. She doesn’t need me. She’s having a good time.

You’ll have to prove that to me.

Prove it! I hung around the office last night. I had to see her. And what happened? She comes out with Mengle—and they went to dinner together—Jeez—

Well—?

Well—She didn’t see me. So I followed them. And after dinner she let him bring her home. He brought her here in a private car—with a chauffeur. I guess that’s what she wants. I don’t earn enough. She’s got to have a private car—with a chauffeur.

Oh, no—no—no.

Well, anyway, I waited outside. And pretty soon he went away. God, I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I used to have a little sense. About girls, anyway. Now I act like a damn dummy. You don’t know what it’s like!

Don’t I?

Does everybody go crazy this way?

[Lighting his pipe] Every last one of us.

You know, when I came in and thought Mengle was here, I was going to beat him up.

No, no—that wouldn’t do any good, you know.

No. But it’d be a lot of fun.

You’re lucky, Rims. You young fellows don’t know how lucky you are. When a man’s young he makes love—when he’s middle-aged he makes money—or tries to—and when he’s old he makes his soul. I never could make any money to speak of, so I suppose it’s about time I began to make my soul. But I’d rather be young—and make love to a girl that was in love with me. There’s nothing like it.

She’s not in love with me, Mr. Halevy. That’s the hell of it. If she were, she wouldn’t have gone away.

Well, you went away, too, didn’t you? And you were in love with her?

Yeah. But—

Maybe she left you because she was in love with you. [Rims, more or less taken aback at this idea, pauses for a moment, then reaches for his hat.] Where are you going, Rims?

I’m going to take a walk around the block. [He starts to the door and meets a chauffeur who is carrying a package.]

I’ve got a package for Miss Halevy.

You mean Mrs. O’Neil. She’s not here.

They said the second floor.

Yes, this is her room, but she’s not here. Anything I can do for you?

No. This thing’s got to be delivered personally.

Then I guess you’ll have to come back.

Yeah?

Yeah!

[He disappears] All right!

Now what the hell is going on?

What do you think?

Well, that’s Mengle’s chauffeur, isn’t it? Must deliver to her personally. What the hell does that make me? [He starts to go.]

Wait a minute! Shall I tell her you were here?

No! [He goes, bumping into Mrs. Gorlik. She holds the door open.]

You’ll have to leave the door open, young man, [She follows him down the hall and calls.] Matty!

Yes Ma’am! [Mr. Halevy puffs vigorously on pipe]

[Outside] See that that door is closed after that young man leaves. All the draughts in these halls is—[Mrs. Gorlik enters left] You’ll have to leave the door open with gentlemen call—[Seeing that Bobby is not there] Oh, she ain’t come in yet?

[Hiding the pipe] No!

And the young man didn’t wait?

No!

You’ll have to excuse me opening the door. It’s not one of the things I like to do—going around opening girls’ doors with gentlemen calling, Mr. Halevy. It is Mr. Halevy, ain’t it?

It is.

But I have to do it, much as I don’t like to. [Noticing he has sat down she does the same on edge of bed.] If I was ever going into this business again, I wouldn’t take girls, only gentlemen. True, gentlemen do get drunk and smash things. But I will say this for them. They do know how to take care of themselves, and you don’t have to watch them.

Why do you have to watch the girls?

[Turning to him, breathless] Why, my dear Mr.—Well—if you knew the kind of goings on, and what was thought of girls that close their doors with gentlemen callers—well, you wouldn’t want it said about your daughter.

You mean they get drunk and break things? [The door-bell rings.]

I guess you know what I mean, all right.

Mrs. Gorlik—

[Rising] Well what is it?

There’s a special delivery letter.

Well, sign for it. Oh, never mind, I’m coming right down. [Mr. Halevy resumes his pipe.]

[Outside] Hello, Mrs. Gorlik.

[Outside] How do you do? There’s a gentleman to see you that says he’s your father. [Bobby enters. Mr. Halevy rises.]

[Kissing him] Dad! Hello!

Well, darling, I stayed away as long as I could.

[Closing the door] I’m glad you came. Do you like my place?

It certainly looks familiar.

You don’t mean it looks like home?

No. But I lived in a lot of places like this before I was married. They haven’t changed the carpet on the stairs of any one of them.

It must be different, though.

My dear, there’s nothing new about these places except the girls and boys that live in them—But, I’m certainly not crazy about this.

Well, I’m not either. But they won’t take girls many places and I liked their scale of prices. [She hangs up her coat.]

You know, I walked past that little house of yours this afternoon, and it looked pretty lonely. And I felt pretty lonely, and I thought three weeks of this was about enough. So I decided to come over and ask you what about it.

Well, I wanted to be alone, and I have been.

You know, you could have your old room—at home—any time?

Dad, I’ll never go home. It would be like going around in a circle. I’d be right back where I started.

I’m afraid it was partly my fault.

No. I did it all with my little hatchet. I cannot tell a lie. I’ve gone back to work, dad—and I’m living here.

What about poor Rims?

What about poor me? I had to be alone, dad! I didn’t dare see Rims. If I had I might have gone back to him—and then—well, we’d be right back where we were. [A knock at the door, Bobby opens it.]

[Entering] Hello!

Hello, Rims!

Good evening.

Good evening, sir.

Don’t you sir me, young man. I’m only twice your age and I don’t look that. And boy, do you want to meet a nice girl? My daughter, Mr. O’Neil. A working girl, but she has class. She—[He stops, crosses to the door, and goes out.]

I guess you didn’t want me to find you.

Oh, I don’t mind.

Well, I’ll tell you about that first, so you’ll know how it happened. I didn’t ask anybody where your room was. I followed you home last night.

Followed me? I had dinner with Mengle.

I know you did. Christ, kid, I’ve been out of my head. I hung around the office last night to see you, and who did you come out with?

You waited—at the office?

Yes—

I didn’t see you!

And then he came home with you. He even stayed around a while.

I was just lonely.

You didn’t look very lonely to me. I can’t stand that. After all, you are my wife.

Oh, was that why you came?

No, it wasn’t. I wanted to see you. You managed to make it lovely for me!

Did you come to see me or did you come to lecture me about Mengle?

Well—you had dinner with him, didn’t you?

It was just Mengle, wasn’t it? That was all you wanted to see me about?

No, it wasn’t.

Then—what was it?

Oh, I guess it does not matter.

That’s what does matter.

Yeah?

Don’t you think so?

I don’t know.

[Sitting down] You might—have a chair.

[He sits] Thanks.

You have a new job I hear.

Yeah!

How’s it going?

Pretty well.

Oh.

Well—not bad!

Jobs are all pretty much alike.

Sure.

What—what business is it?

Automatic mooring winches.

Oh. Oh, yes!—Are there many of them used?

What?

These—

Automatic mooring winches?

Yes—

You’d be surprised. . . . Same salary.

Truly?

Yes.

Why that’s marvellous, Rims—to change jobs and get the same salary the first thing. It is—marvellous.

Not a very nice place, is it?

It’s inexpensive.

It ought to be.

You don’t like it?

Well, you’re here, of course.

Thanks, Rims.

[Rising] Say, Bobby—

[Rising, and putting the chair between them] Yes—?

Are you really as hard-hearted as—as all this kind of implies?

When was I ever hard-hearted?

You know, I came over here all primed to say something, and I’m damned if I know how to say it.

What was it?

I came to ask you—if you hadn’t had enough of it—and—maybe you’d come home now—

Back to the house?

Where else?

No.

What are we going to do with the house, then?

I guess Florrie and Willy are going to take it off our hands.

What are you going to do?

Live here.

And what am I going to do?

I don’t know. [There is a knock] Come in. [She opens the door and finds the chauffeur with his package.]

I’ve a package for you, Miss Halevy.

Oh! thank you. [She takes it.]

You’re welcome! [He goes. Bobby closes the door.]

So, it’s flowers Mengle’s sending you, huh? Well, you better open it.

I don’t want to.

Sure, open it. Why ruin the flowers—just on my account.

It isn’t flowers!

Then what is it?

[Opening it] It’s really something for Mrs. Gorlik.

It’s a bolt!—

[Laughing] Yes—for the door!

[Taking out a screw driver and a hammer] And a hammer, and a screw driver to put it on with.

Well—he said he was going to send me a bolt—but I thought he was joking. You see, when Mengle was here last night, the landlady seemed to think he was a shady character and kept opening the door all the time—

Hey! Wait a minute! Let me get this straight!

I suppose he thought it would be funny. And I really did want a bolt.

Yeah, go right ahead and explain. You’re making it better all the time.

Rims—

Yeah, explain some more! Did you ask him for it?

I didn’t tell him he couldn’t send it.

Oh, you didn’t? Well, all right—

You mean you think I haven’t any right to let Mr. Mengle send me a bolt for my door?

I mean it looks damned funny to me, and it is damned funny!

Certainly it’s funny! That’s why he did it? Don’t you see?

Do I see? I’ll say I see! [He starts for the door.]

[Stepping in front of him] Rims, if you go now, it’s the last you see of me as long as you live. [There is a pause.]

Well, what I can’t understand is why you’d let Mengle come to your room.

Well, why not, if I feel like it? It’s my room. I can take care of myself.

I doubt it.

Listen, Rims. I did want you to come. I’ve been waiting for you to come. But if you’re going to begin to tell me what I can do and what I can’t do—

If you don’t know enough to keep clear of Mengle, you shouldn’t be at large.

That’s just the point. I do know enough to keep clear of Mengle. Only I’m on my own now, and I’m going to use my own judgment.

Such as it is.

Exactly. Such as it is. You use yours such as it is, and you haven’t any guardian.

What’s the idea, anyway.

The idea is, I’m a free agent. Just as free as you are.

You don’t care about me any more?

Yes, I do.

Well, it’s all right about Mengle. I can see how it was.

It did look queer, I know.

Only any time you want a bolt on your door, I wish you’d ask me.

I will—if you’re around.

You know damn well I’d be around if I thought you wanted me.

[Smiling] Well, I wasn’t sure you would.

[Coming close to Bobby] Listen, dear—about that house! That isn’t a bad little house—as houses go.

Any house is bad enough.

[Pleading] You won’t try it again?

No. . . . You see—Oh, I wonder if I can tell you—What we wanted was a love affair, wasn’t it? Just to be together and let the rest go hang—and what we got was a house and bills and general hell. Do you know what I think a love affair is, Rims? It’s when the whole world is trying to keep two people apart—and they insist on being together. And when they get married the whole world pushes them together so they just naturally fly apart. I want my love affair back. I wanted hurried kisses and clandestine meetings, and a secret lover. I don’t want a house. I don’t want a husband. I want a lover.

So that let’s me out.

Does it, dear? [A knock. The door opens and Mrs. Gorlik appears]

You’ll have to leave the door open with gentlemen callers.

Oh, yes, Rims. I forgot to tell you. The door should be open.

Of course, I understand the gentleman last night was your boss, and the old one was your father and I daresay this one’s your husband.

No. Oh, no.

[Icily] Then the door stays open.

Very well.

It’s ten o’clock and I suppose you know there’s no gentlemen callers allowed after ten.

Mr. O’Neil was just going.

Yes, the gentlemen are always just going!—It’s ten o’clock! [She goes.]

I guess you’ll have to go, Rims.

[Taking his hat] All right.

Goodnight, dear.

So we’re not married any more?

No.

That’s nice.

It is, isn’t it?

When do I see you?

Whenever you like.

And how do I see you? By appointment?

I’m not very busy—if we never had been married and I was just a girl you wanted to see sometime—how would you manage it?

I could call you up tomorrow and take you for a bus-ride, I suppose. And dinner at Child’s. Wouldn’t that be grand?

I’d like it. Why don’t you?

Well, I don’t want to go bus-riding—Aw Bobby, what’s it all leading up to anyway. Are we going to get a divorce?

If you like.

Will you marry me again if we do?

Oh, Rims, you are a darling! You are! Would you really do it all over again?

Sure I would.

But you never really wanted to get married, did you? Now tell the truth—

I wanted you.

Of course you did, but you didn’t want a house. I wanted you but I didn’t want a house. And I don’t now.

How do I know you won’t fall for somebody else sometime? If I leave you here?

You don’t.

Oh.

How do I know you won’t fall for somebody else? I don’t. I don’t want to. You aren’t to see me unless you just can’t keep away. You used to know me so well you didn’t like me. You used to know where I was and what I was doing all the time. It was positively indecent, and we won’t have any more of it. It’s like not wearing any clothes.

Well. All right.

So—now we’re really free.

I said all right. I don’t give a whoop about that.

What do you give a whoop about?

[Close to her] About you, you little fool! Can’t you see it? Don’t you see I can’t get along without you? I can’t stand being away from you all the time. I keep waking up in the night wanting you.

So do I.

I want to see you to-night.

Well—?

And the house is standing there waiting for us.

[Turning away] It’ll just have to wait, then. I got you into it in the first place—and you didn’t like it—and I didn’t like it. And now, thank God, we’re out of it.

I don’t know what you want.

I don’t either. I only know what I don’t want.

All right! [He puts on his hat and goes out.]

Goodbye. [There’s no answer. She stands still for a moment, then closes the door and sits disconsolately on the edge of the bed. There is a knock and she turns to the door. It’s only Mrs. Gorlik.]

Have all the gentlemen gone?

Yes, Mrs. Gorlik. I’m sorry—but all the gentlemen have gone.

[Looking behind the door] I’m just seeing for myself. Don’t you try any tricks. I try to run—

[Over her shoulder, annoyed] I know—a respectable house.

Don’t try any tricks. [She goes out, closing the door. Bobby sits for a moment, disconsolate, then gets her night things from the closet and climbs on a chair to turn out the wall-lamp. She starts to undress, then falls on the bed, sobbing. Rims appears outside the window in the moonlight. He opens the window, climbs in softly, and tiptoes to the package containing the bolt. As he places the bolt against the door in the semi-dark he startles Bobby with the metallic click.]

[Looking up] Oh, Rims!

[Pointing to the screw driver on chair] Bring me the screw driver, will you, dear?

[Bringing it to him] Hush! [Rims starts to fit the bolt to the door.]

CURTAIN

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.

[The end of Saturday’s Children by Maxwell Anderson]