SCENE. _Six months have elapsed. The furnished room of_ LAURA MURDOCK,
_second story back of an ordinary, cheap theatrical lodging-house in
the theatre district of New York. The house is evidently of a type of
the old-fashioned brown-stone front, with high ceilings, dingy walls,
and long, rather insecure windows. The woodwork is depressingly dark.
The ceiling is cracked, the paper is old and spotted and in places
loose. There is a door leading to the hallway. There is a large
old-fashioned wardrobe in which are hung a few old clothes, most
of them a good deal worn and shabby, showing that the owner_--LAURA
MURDOCK--_has had a rather hard time of it since leaving Colorado
in the first act. The doors of this wardrobe must be equipped with
springs so they will open outward, and also furnished with wires so
they can be controlled from the back. This is absolutely necessary,
owing to "business" which is done during the progress of the act. The
drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe is open at rise. This is filled
with a lot of rumpled, tissue-paper and other rubbish. An old pair of
shoes is seen at the upper end of the wardrobe on the floor. There is
an armchair over which is thrown an ordinary kimono, and on top of
the wardrobe are a number of magazines and old books, and an unused
parasol wrapped up in tissue paper._
_The dresser, which is upstage, against the wall, is in keeping with
the general meanness, and its adornment consists of old postcards
stuck in between the mirror and its frame, with some well-worn veils
and ribbons hung on the side. On the dresser is a pincushion, a bottle
of cheap perfume, purple in colour and nearly empty; a common crockery
match-holder, containing matches, which must be practicable; a
handkerchief-box, powder-box and puff, rouge-box and rouge paw,
hand mirror, small alcohol curling-iron heater, which must also be
practicable, as it is used in the "business" of the act; scissors,
curling-tongs, hair comb and brush, and a small cheap picture of_ JOHN
MADISON; _a small work-box containing a thimble and thread,--and stuck
in the pincushion are a couple of needles, threaded. Directly to the
left of the bureau, with the door to the outside closet intervening,
is a broken-down washstand, on which is a basin half full of water, a
bottle of tooth-powder, tooth brushes and holder, soap and soap-dish,
and other cheap toilet articles, and a small drinking-glass. Hung on
the corner of the washstand is a soiled towel. Hung on the rack across
the top of the washstand one can see a pair of stockings. On the floor
in front of the washstand is a pitcher half full of water; also a
large waste-water jar of the cheapest type._
_Below the washstand, and with the head against the wall, is a
three-quarter old wooden bed, also showing the general decay of the
entire room. Tacked on the head of this bed is a large photo of_ JOHN
MADISON, _with a small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top, covering
the tack. Under the photo are arranged half a dozen cheap, artificial
violets, in pitiful recognition of the girl's love for her absent
sweetheart._
_Under the mattress at the head of the bed is a heavy cardboard box,
about thirty inches long, seven inches wide and four inches deep,
containing about one hundred and twenty-five letters and eighty
telegrams, tied in about eight bundles with dainty ribbon. One bundle
must contain all practical letters of several closely written pages
each, each letter having been opened. They must be written upon
business paper and envelopes, such as are used in newspaper offices
and by business men._
_Under the pillow at the head of the bed is carelessly thrown a
woman's night-dress. On the bed is an old book, open, with face
downward, and beside it is an apple which some one has been nibbling.
Across the foot of the bed is a soiled quilt, untidily folded. The
pillows are hollow in the centre, as if having been used lately. At
the foot of the bed is a small table, with soiled and ink-stained
cover, upon which are a cheap pitcher, containing some withered
carnations, and a desk-pad, with paper, pen, ink, and envelopes
scattered around._
_Against the wall below the bed is an old mantel-piece and fireplace
with iron grate, such as are used in houses of this type. On the
mantel-piece are photos of actors and actresses, an old mantel clock
in the centre, in front of which is a box of cheap peppermint candy in
large pieces, and a plate with two apples upon it; some cheap pieces
of bric-à-brac and a little vase containing joss-sticks, such as one
might burn to improve the atmosphere of these dingy, damp houses.
Below the mantel-piece is a thirty-six inch theatre trunk, with
theatre labels on it, in the tray of which are articles of clothing,
a small box of thread, and a bundle of eight pawn tickets. Behind the
trunk is a large cardboard box. Hanging from the ceiling directly
over the table is a single arm gas-jet, from which is hung a turkey
wish-bone. On the jet is a little wire arrangement to hold small
articles for heating. Beside the table is a chair. Under the bed are a
pair of bedroom slippers and a box. Between the bed and the mantel
is a small tabourette on which are a book and a candle-stick with
the candle half burned. On the floor in front of the door is a
slipper,--also another in front of the dresser,--as if they had been
thrown carelessly down. On the wardrobe door, on the down-stage side,
is tacked another photo of_ JOHN MADISON.
_In an alcove off left is a table on which is a small oil stove, two
cups, saucers and plates, a box of matches, tin coffee-box, and a
small Japanese teapot. On a projection outside the window is a pint
milk bottle, half filled with milk, and an empty benzine bottle, which
is labelled. Both are covered with snow._
_The backing shows a street snow-covered. In arranging the properties
it must be remembered that in the wardrobe is a box of Uneeda
biscuits, with one end torn open. There is a door down right, opening
inward, leading into the hallway. The window is at back, running from
floor nearly to the ceiling. This window does not rise, but opens in
the manner of the French or door window._
_On the outside of the window covering the same is an iron guard such
as is used in New York on the lower back windows. The rods running up
and down are about four inches apart. There is a projection outside
the window such as would be formed by a storm door in the basement;
running the full length of the window and about thirty inches wide,
raised about a foot from the floor in front and about nine inches in
the back, there is opening inward a door at left back, leading into
a small alcove, as has been mentioned before. The door is half glass,
the glass part being the upper half, and is ajar when the curtain
rises. A projection at fireplace such as would be made for a chimney
is in the wall which runs from left centre diagonally to left first
entrance._
AT RISE _the stage is empty. After a pause_ LAURA _enters, passes the
dresser, places umbrella at the right, end of it against wall, crosses
to back of armchair, removes gloves, lays them over back of chair,
takes off coat and hat, hangs hat on end of wardrobe, and puts coat
inside; notices old slipper in front of dresser and one on the extreme
right, and with impatience picks them up and puts them in the
wardrobe drawer. Then crosses to dresser, gets needle and thread off
pincushion, and mends small rip in glove, after which she puts gloves
in top drawer of dresser, crosses to extreme end of dresser, and gets
handkerchief out of box, takes up bottle containing purple perfume,
holds it up so she can see there is only a small quantity left,
sprinkles a drop on handkerchief carefully, so as not to use too much,
looks at bottle again to see how much is left, places it on dresser;
goes to up-stage side of bed, kneels on head of the bed and looks
lovingly at photo of_ JOHN MADISON, _and finally pulls up the
mattress, takes out box of letters, and opens it. She then sits down
in Oriental fashion, with her feet under her, selects a bundle of
letters, unties the ribbon, and takes out a letter such as has been
hereinbefore described, glances it over, puts it down in her lap, and
again takes a long look at the picture of_ JOHN MADISON. ANNIE _is
heard coming upstairs_. LAURA _looks quickly towards the door, puts
the letters back in box, and hurriedly places box under mattress, and
replaces pillow_. ANNIE _knocks on door_. LAURA _rises and crosses to
door._
LAURA. Come in.
ANNIE, _a chocolate-colored negress, enters. She is slovenly in
appearance, but must not in any way denote the "mammy." She is the
type one encounters in cheap theatrical lodging-houses. She has a
letter in her hand,--also a clean towel folded,--and approaches_
LAURA.
LAURA. Hello, Annie.
ANNIE. Heah's yo' mail, Miss Laura.
LAURA. [_Taking letter._] Thank you!
[_She looks at the address and does not open it._
ANNIE. One like dat comes every mornin', don't it? Used to all be
postmahked Denver. Must 'a' moved. [_Trying to look over_ LAURA'S
_shoulder_; LAURA _turns and sees her_; ANNIE _looks away._] Where is
dat place called Goldfield, Miss Laura?
LAURA. In Nevada.
ANNIE. In _Nevada_?
LAURA. Yes, Nevada.
ANNIE. [_Draws her jacket closer around her as if chilly._] Must
be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. De pos'man brings it 'leven
o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn; but
it comes every day, don't it?
LAURA. I know.
ANNIE. [_Crosses to right of armchair, brushes it off and makes an
effort to read letter, leaning across chair._] Guess must be from yo'
husban', ain't it?
LAURA. No, I haven't any.
ANNIE. [_Crossing to centre triumphantly._] Dat's what Ah tole Mis'
Farley when she was down talkin' about you dis morning. She said if he
all was yo' husband he might do somethin' to help you out. Ah told her
Ah didn't think you had any husban'. Den she says you ought to have
one, you're so pretty.
LAURA. Oh, Annie!
ANNIE. [_Sees door open; goes and bangs it shut._] Der ain't a decent
door in dis old house. Mis' Farley said yo' might have mos' any man
you [_Hangs clean towel on washstand._] wanted just for de askin', but
Ah said yuh [_Takes newspaper and books off bed, and places them on
table._] was too particular about the man yo' 'd want. Den she did a
heap o' talking.
LAURA. About what? [_Places letter open on table, looks at hem of
skirt, discovers a rip, rises, crosses up to dresser, gets needle,
crosses down to trunk; opens and takes thimble out; closes lid of
tray, sits on it, and sews skirt during scene._
ANNIE. [_At bed, fussing around, folds nightgown and places it under
pillow._] Well, you know, Mis' Farley she's been havin' so much
trouble wid her roomers. Yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo'
front, she lef'. She's goin' wiv some troupe on the road. She owed her
room for three weeks and jus' had to leave her trunk. [_Crosses and
fusses over table._] My! how Mis' Farley did scold her. Mis' Farley
let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but somehow Ah
guess she couldn't--
[_Reads letter on table._
LAURA. [_Sees her, angrily exclaims._] Annie!
ANNIE. [_In confusion, brushing off table._]--for if she could she
wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, Miss Laura?
[_Crosses to armchair, and picks up kimono off back._
LAURA. No, I suppose not. What did Mrs. Farley say about me?
ANNIE. Oh! nothin' much. [_Crosses left and stands._
LAURA. Well, what?
ANNIE. She kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' being three weeks behind in
yo' room rent, and she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed
her somethin', seein' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when
yuh come here.
LAURA. Who, for instance?
ANNIE. Ah don't know. Mis' Farley said some of 'em might slip yo'
enough jest to help yuh out. [_Pause._] Ain't yo' got nobody to take
care of you at all, Miss Laura?
[_Hangs kimono over back of armchair._
LAURA. No! No one.
ANNIE. Dat's too bad.
LAURA. Why?
ANNIE. [_Crossing again._] Mis' Farley says yuh wouldn't have no
trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to.
LAURA. [_With sorrowful shudder._] Please [_Doors of wardrobe open
very slowly._] don't, Annie.
ANNIE. Dere's a gemman [_Playing with corner of tablecloth._] dat
calls on one of de ladies from the Hippodrome, in de big front room
downstairs. He's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout you.
LAURA. [_Exasperated._] Oh, shut up!
ANNIE. [_Sees doors of wardrobe have swung open; she crosses, slams
them shut, turns to_ LAURA.] Mis' Farley says--[_Doors have swung open
again; they hit her in the back. She turns and bangs them to with all
her strength_.] Damn dat door! [_Crosses to washstand, grabs basin
which is half full of water, empties same into waste-jar, puts basin
on washstand, and wipes it out with soiled towel_.] Mis' Farley says
if she don't get someone in the house dat has reg'lar money soon,
she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house.
LAURA. I'm sorry; I'll try again to-day. [_Rises, crosses up to
mantel, gets desk-pad, &c., crosses to right of table, sits_.
ANNIE. [_Crosses to back of bed, wiping basin with towel_.] Ain't yo'
got any job at all?
LAURA. No.
ANNIE. When yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty
good to me. You know Mr. Weston?
LAURA. Jim Weston?
ANNIE. Yassum, Mr. Weston what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the
top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. Dey're so many actors
and actoresses out o' work. Mis' Farley says she don't know how she's
goin' to live. She said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks
ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, Miss Laura?
LAURA. [_Rising and going to the bureau_.] No. It's all gone.
ANNIE. Mah sakes! All dem rings and things? You ain't done sold them?
[_Sinks on bed_.
LAURA. They're pawned. What did Mrs. Farley say she was going to do?
ANNIE. Guess maybe Ah'd better not tell.
[_Crosses to door hurriedly, carrying soiled towel_.
LAURA. Please do. [_Crosses to chair, left side_.
ANNIE. Yuh been so good to me, Miss Laura. Never was nobody in dis
house what give me so much, and Ah ain't been gettin' much lately. And
when Mis' Farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask
yuh for your room, Ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs
and cried. Besides, Mis' Farley don't like me very well since you've
ben havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here.
LAURA. Why not? [_Takes kimono of chair-back, crosses up to dresser,
puts kimono in drawer, takes out purse_.
ANNIE. She has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or
fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh
asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs,
and she says, "Where yuh goin' wid all dose things, Annie?" Ah said,
"Ah'm just goin' up to Miss Laura's room with dat knife and fo'k." Ah
said, "Ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, Mis' Farley, she jest wants
to look at them, Ah guess." She said, "She wants to eat huh dinner wid
'em, Ah guess." Ah got real mad, and Ah told her if she'd give me mah
pay Ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what Ah'd do, Ah'd brush right
out o' here. [_Violently shaking out towel_.
LAURA. I'm sorry, Annie, if I've caused you any trouble. Never mind,
I'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day anyway. [_She
fumbles in purse, takes out a quarter, and turns to_ ANNIE.] Here!
ANNIE. No, ma'am, Ah don' want dat.
[_Making a show of reluctance_.
LAURA. Please take it.
ANNIE. No, ma'am, Ah don' want it. You need dat. Dat's breakfast money
for yuh, Miss Laura.
LAURA. Please take it, Annie. I might just as well get rid of this as
anything else.
ANNIE. [_Takes it rather reluctantly_.] Yuh always was so good, Miss
Laura. Sho' yuh don' want dis?
LAURA. Sure.
ANNIE. Sho' yo' goin' to get planty mo'?
LAURA. Sure.
MRS. FARLEY'S VOICE. [_Downstairs_.] Annie! Annie!
ANNIE. [_Going to door, opens it_.] Dat's Mis' Farley. [_To_ MRS.
FARLEY.] Yassum, Mis' Farley.
SAME VOICE. Is Miss Murdock up there?
ANNIE. Yassum, Mis' Farley, yassum!
MRS. FARLEY. Anything doin'?
ANNIE. Huh?
MRS. FARLEY. Anything doin'?
ANNIE. [_At door_.] Ah--Ah--hain't asked, Missy Farley.
MRS. FARLEY. Then do it.
LAURA. [_Coming to the rescue at the door. To_ ANNIE.] I'll answer
her. [_Out of door to_ MRS. FARLEY.] What is it, Mrs. Farley?
MRS. FARLEY. [_Her voice softened_.] Did ye have any luck this
morning, dearie?
LAURA. No; but I promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon
or to-morrow.
MRS. FARLEY. Sure? Are you certain?
LAURA. Absolutely.
MRS. FARLEY. Well, I must say these people expect me to keep--[_Door
closed_.
LAURA _quietly closes the door, and_ MRS. FARLEY'S _rather strident
voice is heard indistinctly_. LAURA _sighs and walks toward table;
sits_. ANNIE _looks after her, and then slowly opens the door_.
ANNIE. Yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' I can do fo' yuh, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Nothing.
ANNIE _exits_. LAURA _sits down and looks at letter, opening it. It
consists of several pages closely written. She reads some of them
hurriedly, skims through the rest, and then turns to the last page
without reading; glances at it; lays it on table; rises_.
LAURA. Hope, just nothing but hope.
_She crosses to bed, falls face down upon it, burying her face in her
hands. Her despondency is palpable. As she lies there a hurdy-gurdy
in the street starts to play a popular air. This arouses her and she
rises, crosses to wardrobe, takes out box of crackers, opens window,
gets bottle of milk off sill outside, places them on table, gets glass
off washstand, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy,
when a knock comes; she crosses quickly to dresser; powders her nose.
The knock is timidly repeated_.
LAURA. [_Without turning, and in a rather tired tone of voice_.] Come
in.
JIM WESTON, _a rather shabby theatrical advance-agent of the old
school, enters timidly, halting at the door and holding the knob in
his hand. He is a man of about forty years old, dressed in an ordinary
manner, of medium height, and in fact has the appearance of a once
prosperous clerk who has been in hard luck. His relations with_
LAURA _are those of pure friendship. They both live in the same
lodging-place, and, both having been out of employment, they have
naturally become acquainted_.
JIM. Can I come in?
LAURA. [_Without turning_.] Hello, Jim Weston. [_He closes door and
enters_.] Any luck?
JIM. Lots of it.
LAURA. That's good. Tell me.
JIM. It's bad luck. Guess you don't want to hear.
LAURA. I'm sorry. Where have you been?
JIM. I kind o' felt around up at Burgess's office. I thought I might
get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. Somehow those
fellows always do business to-morrow.
[_Hurdy-gurdy dies out_.
LAURA. Yes, and there's always to-day to look after.
JIM. I'm ready to give up. I've tramped Broadway for nine weeks until
every piece of flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet
coming. Got a letter from the missis this morning. The kids got to
have some clothes, there's measles in the town, and mumps in the next
village. I've just got to raise some money or get some work, or the
first thing you'll know I'll be hanging around Central Park on a dark
night with a club.
LAURA. I know just how you feel. Sit down, Jim. [JIM _crosses and
sits in chair right of table_.] It's pretty tough for me [_Offers_ JIM
_glass of milk; he refuses; takes crackers_.], but it must be a whole
lot worse for you with a wife and kids.
JIM. Oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along--turn his hand to
anything; but a woman--
LAURA. Worse, you think?
JIM. I was just thinking about you and what Burgess said?
LAURA. What was that?
[_Crosses to bed; sits on up-stage side, sipping milk_.
JIM. You know Burgess and I used to be in the circus business
together. He took care of the grafters when I was boss canvas man. I
never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money
they had and then taking part of it. He used to run the privilege car,
you know.
LAURA. Privilege car?
JIM. Had charge of all the pickpockets,--dips we called
'em--sure-thing gamblers, and the like. Made him rich. I kept sort o'
on the level and I'm broke. Guess it don't pay to be honest--
LAURA. [_Turns to him and in a significant voice_:] You don't really
think that?
JIM. No, maybe not. Ever since I married the missis and the first kid
come, we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and
earned; but when you can't get hold of that, it's tough.
LAURA. I know.
JIM. Burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he's
turned. He's happy and prosperous, but I guess he ain't any better now
than he was then.
LAURA. Maybe not. I've been trying to get an engagement from him.
There are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that I could do,
but he has never absolutely said "no," but yet somehow he's never said
"yes."
JIM. He spoke about you.
LAURA. In what way? [_Rising, stands behind_ JIM'S _chair._
JIM. I gave him my address and he seen it was yours, too. Asked if I
lived in the same place.
LAURA. Was that all?
JIM. Wanted to know how you was getting on. I let him know you needed
work, but I didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. He said something
about you being a damned fool.
LAURA. [_Suddenly and interested._] How? [_She crosses._
JIM. Well, Johnny Ensworth--you know he used to do the fights on the
_Evening Journal_; now he's press-agent for Burgess; nice fellow and
way on the inside--he told me where you were in wrong.
LAURA. What have I done? [_Sits in armchair._
JIM. Burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical
comedies--he just trails. Of course he's got a lot of influence, and
he's always Johnny-on-the-Spot to turn any dirty trick that they
want. There are four or five rich men in town who are there with the
bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular
about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew
ring at 11:30 every night.
LAURA. And he thinks I am too particular?
JIM. That's what was slipped me. Seems that one of the richest men
that is in on Mr. Burgess's address-book is a fellow named Brockton
from downtown some place. He's got more money than the Shoe and
Leather National Bank. He likes to play show business.
LAURA. [_Rises quickly._] Oh! [_Crosses to wardrobe, gets hat; crosses
to dresser, gets scissors with intention of curling feathers._
JIM. I thought you knew him. I thought it was just as well to tell you
where he and Burgess stand. They're pals.
LAURA. [_Coming over to_ JIM _and with emphasis crosses to down-stage
side of bed; puts hat and scissors on bed._] I don't want you to talk
about him or any of them. I just want you to know that I'm trying to
do everything in my power to go through this season without any more
trouble. I've pawned everything I've got; I've cut every friend I
knew. But where am I going to end? That's what I want to know--where
am I going to end? [_To bed and sits_.] Every place I look for a
position something interferes. It's almost as if I were blacklisted.
I know I could get jobs all right if I wanted to pay the price, but I
won't. I just want to tell you, I won't. No!
[_Rises, crosses to mantel, rests elbow._
JIM. That's the way to talk. [_Rises._] I don't know you very well,
but I've watched you close. I'm just a common, ordinary showman who
never had much money, and I'm going out o' date. I've spent most of
my time with nigger-minstrel shows and circuses, but I've been on the
square. That's why I'm broke. [_Rather sadly._] Once I thought
the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she
couldn't do that, she's grown so damn fat. [_Crosses to_ LAURA.] Just
you don't mind. It'll all come out right.
LAURA. It's an awful tough game, isn't it?
JIM. [_During this speech_ LAURA _gets cup, pours milk back into
bottle, closes biscuit-box, puts milk on shed outside, and biscuits
into wardrobe, cup in alcove._] It's hell forty ways from the Jack.
It's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools
jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors,
it must be something awful. I ain't blaming the women. They say
"self-preservation is the first law of nature," and I guess that's
right; but sometimes when the show is over and I see them fellows with
their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a [LAURA _crosses
to chair right of table and leans over back._] holder long enough to
reach from here to Harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket
and turn my head, I feel as if I'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting
around this old town.
LAURA. Jim!
JIM. Yes, I do--you bet.
LAURA. That wouldn't pay, would it?
JIM. No, they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in Sing
Sing, and I'm too poor to go to Matteawan. But all them fellows under
nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or anyone
else.
LAURA. [_Rather meditatively._] Perhaps all of them are not so bad.
JIM. [_Sits on bed._] Yes, they are,--angels and all. Last season I
had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a
girl. We lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in
Texas. I telegraphed: "Must have a thousand, or can't move." He just
answered: "Don't move." We didn't.
LAURA. But that was business.
JIM. Bad business. It took a year for some of them folks to get back
to Broadway. Some of the girls never did, and I guess never will.
LAURA. Maybe they're better off, Jim. [_Sits right of table._
JIM. Couldn't be worse. They're still in Texas. [_To himself._] Wish I
knew how to do something else, being a plumber or a walking delegate;
they always have jobs.
LAURA. Well, I wish I could do something else too, but I can't, and
we've got to make the best of it.
JIM. I guess so. I'll see you this evening. I hope you'll have good
news by that time. [_Starts to exit, about to open door; then retreats
a step, with hand on door-knob, crosses and in a voice meant to be
kindly_] If you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some
other woman in the house, maybe I can get a couple of tickets for some
of the shows. I know a lot of fellows who are working.
LAURA. No, thanks. I haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and I
don't--
JIM. [_With a smile crosses to_ LAURA, _puts arm around her._] Now you
just cheer up! Something's sure to turn up. It always has for me, and
I'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. There's
always a break in hard luck sometime--that's sure.
LAURA. [_Smiling through her tears._] I hope so. But things are
looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they?
JIM. I'll go down and give Mrs. F. a line o' talk and try to square
you for a couple of days more anyway. But I guess she's laying pretty
close to the cushion herself, poor woman.
LAURA. Annie says a lot of people owe her.
JIM. Well, you can't pay what you haven't got. And even if money was
growing on trees, it's winter now. [JIM _goes towards door._] I'm off.
Maybe to-day is lucky day. So long!
LAURA. Good-bye.
JIM. Keep your nerve. [_Exit_
LAURA. I will. [_She sits for a moment in deep thought, picks up the
letter received, as if to read it, and then throws it down in anger.
She buries her head in hands_.] I can't stand it--I just simply can't
stand it.
MRS. FARLEY'S VOICE. [_Off stage_.] Miss Murdock--Miss Murdock.
LAURA. [_Brushing away tears, rises, goes to door, and opens it_.]
What is it?
SAME VOICE. There's a lady down here to see you.
ELFIE'S VOICE. [_Off stage_.] Hello, dearie, can I come up?
LAURA. Is that you, Elfie?
ELFIE. Yes; shall I come up?
LAURA. Why, certainly.
_She waits at the door for a moment, and_ ELFIE ST. CLAIR _appears.
She is gorgeously gowned in the rather extreme style affected by the
usual New York woman who is cared for by a gentleman of wealth and
who has not gone through the formality of matrimonial alliance. Her
conduct is always exaggerated and her attitude vigorous. Her gown is
of the latest design, and in every detail of dress she shows evidence
of most extravagant expenditure. She carries a hand-bag of gold,
upon which are attached such trifles as a gold cigarette-case, a gold
powder-box, pencils, and the like_. ELFIE _throws her arms around_
LAURA, _and both exchange kisses_.
ELFIE. Laura, you old dear [_Crossing to table_.], I've just found out
where you've been hiding, and came around to see you.
LAURA. [_Who is much brightened by_ ELFIE'S _appearance_.] Elfie,
you're looking bully. How are you, dear?
ELFIE. Fine.
LAURA. Come in and sit down. I haven't much to offer, but--
ELFIE. Oh, never mind. It's such a grand day outside, and I've come
around in my car to take you out. [_Sits right of table_.] You know
I've got a new one, and it can go some.
LAURA. [_Sits on arm of chair_.] I am sorry, but I can't go out this
afternoon, Elfie.
ELFIE. What's the matter?
LAURA. You see I'm staying home a good deal nowadays. I haven't been
feeling very well and I don't go out much.
ELFIE. I should think not. I haven't seen you in Rector's or Martin's
since you come back from Denver. Got a glimpse of you one day trailing
up Broadway, but couldn't get to you--you dived into some office or
other. [_For the first time she surveys the room, rises, looks around
critically, crossing to mantel_.] Gee! Whatever made you come into a
dump like this? It's the limit.
LAURA. [_Crossing and standing back of the table_.] Oh, I know it
isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and after all--a home's a home.
ELFIE. Looks more like a prison. [_Takes candy from mantel; spits it
out on floor_.] Makes me think of the old days of Child's sinkers and
a hall bedroom.
LAURA. It's comfortable. [_Leaning hands on table_.
ELFIE. Not! [_Sits on bed, trying bed with comedy effect_. Say, is
this here for an effect, or do you sleep on it?
LAURA. I sleep on it.
ELFIE. No wonder you look tired. Say, listen, dearie. What else is the
matter with you anyway?
LAURA. Nothing.
ELFIE. Yes, there is. What happened between you and Brockton?
[_Notices faded flowers in vase on table; takes them out, tosses them
into fireplace, replaces them with gardenias which she wears_.] He's
not broke, because I saw him the other day.
LAURA. Where?
ELFIE. In the park. Asked me out to luncheon, but I couldn't go. You
know, dearie, I've got to be so careful. Jerry's so awful jealous--the
old fool.
LAURA. Do you see much of Jerry nowadays, Elfie?
ELFIE. Not any more than I can help and be nice. He gets on my nerves.
Of course, I've heard about your quitting Brockton.
LAURA. Then why do you ask?
[_Crosses around chair right of table; stands_.
ELFIE. Just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble
was. Now tell me all about it. Can I smoke here?
[_Takes cigarette-case up, opens it, selecting cigarette_.
LAURA. Surely. [_Gets matches off bureau, puts them on table_.
ELFIE. Have one? [_Offers case_.
LAURA. No, thank you.
[_Sits in chair right of table, facing_ ELFIE.
ELFIE. H'm-m, h'm-m, hah! [_Lights cigarette_.] Now go ahead. Tell me
all the scandal. I'm just crazy to know.
LAURA. There's nothing to tell. I haven't been able to find work, that
is all, and I'm short of money. You can't live in hotels, you know,
with cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working.
ELFIE. Yes, you can. I haven't worked in a year.
LAURA. But you don't understand, dear. I--I--Well, you know I--well,
you know--I can't say what I want.
ELFIE. Oh, yes, you can. You can say anything to me--everybody else
does. We've been pals. I know you got along a little faster in the
business than I did. The chorus was my limit, and you went into the
legitimate thing. But we got our living just the same way. I didn't
suppose there was any secret between you and me about that.
LAURA. I know there wasn't then, Elfie, but I tell you I'm different
now. I don't want to do that sort of thing, and I've been very
unlucky. This has been a terribly hard season for me. I simply haven't
been able to get an engagement.
ELFIE. Well, you can't get on this way. Won't [_Pauses, knocking ashes
off cigarette to cover hesitation_.] Brockton help you out?
LAURA. What's the use of talking to you [_Rises and crosses to
fireplace_.], Elfie; you don't understand.
ELFIE. [_Puffing deliberately on cigarette and crossing her legs in
almost a masculine attitude_.] No? Why don't I understand?
LAURA. Because you can't; you've never felt as I have.
ELFIE. How do you know?
LAURA. [_Turning impatiently_.] Oh, what's the use of explaining?
ELFIE. You know, Laura, I'm not much on giving advice, but you make me
sick. I thought you'd grown wise. A young girl just butting into this
business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be on
to the game and make the best of it.
LAURA. [_Going over to her angrily_.] If you came up here, Elfie, to
talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. I was West this summer.
I met someone, a real man, who did me a whole lot of good,--a man who
opened my eyes to a different way of going along--a man who--Oh, well,
what's the use? You don't know--you don't know. [_Sits on bed_.
ELFIE. [_Throws cigarette into fireplace_.] I don't know, don't I? I
don't know, I suppose, that when I came to this town from up state,--a
little burg named Oswego,--and joined a chorus, that I didn't fall in
love with just such a man. I suppose I don't know that then I was
the best-looking girl in New York, and everybody talked about me? I
suppose I don't know that there were men, all ages and with all kinds
of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking
me out to supper? And I didn't do it, did I? For three years I stuck
by this good man who was to lead me in a good way toward a good life.
And all the time I was getting older, never quite so pretty one day
as I had been the day before. I never knew then what it was to be
tinkered with by hair-dressers and manicures or a hundred and one of
those other people who make you look good. I didn't have to have them
then. [_Rises, crosses to right of table, facing_ LAURA.] Well, you
know, Laura, what happened.
LAURA. Wasn't it partly your fault, Elfie?
ELFIE. [_Speaking across table angrily._] Was it my fault that time
made me older and I took on a lot of flesh? Was it my fault that the
work and the life took out the colour, and left the make-up? Was it my
fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as I'd come, and
were chased after, just as I was? Was it my fault the cabs weren't
waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty I was? And
was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one
else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat--cold flat [_Brings
hand down on table._]--and I'd been on the dead level with him! [_With
almost a sob, crosses up to bureau, powders nose, comes down back of
table._] It almost broke my heart. Then I made up my mind to get
even and get all I could out of the game. Jerry came along. He was a
has-been and I was on the road to be. He wanted to be good to me, and
I let him. That's all.
LAURA. Still, I don't see how you can live that way.
[_Lies on bed._
ELFIE. Well, you did, and you didn't kick.
LAURA. Yes, but things are different with me now. You'd be the same
way if you were in my place.
ELFIE. No. I've had all the romance I want, and I'll stake you to all
your love affairs. [_Crosses back of bed, touches picture over bed._]
I am out to gather in as much coin as I can in my own way, so when the
old rainy day comes along I'll have a little change to buy myself an
umbrella.
LAURA. [_Rising and angrily crossing to armchair._] What did you come
here for? Why can't you leave me alone when I'm trying to get along?
ELFIE. Because I want to help you.
LAURA. [_During speech crosses to up-stage side of bed, angrily tosses
quilt to floor and sits on bed in tears._] You can't help me. I'm all
right--I tell you I am. What do you care anyway?
ELFIE. [_Sits on bed, crosses down stage to lower left side of bed,
sits facing_ LAURA.] But I do care. I know how you feel with an old
cat for a landlady and living up here on a side street with a lot of
cheap burlesque people. Why, the room's cold [LAURA _rises, crosses
to window._], and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look
shabby. You haven't got a job--chances are you won't have one. What
does [_Indicating picture on bed with thumb._] this fellow out there
do for you? Send you long letters of condolences? That's what I used
to get. When I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat,
he told me how much he loved me; so I had the other ones re-soled and
turned the old petticoat. And look at you, you're beginning to show
it. [_She surveys her carefully._] I do believe there are lines coming
in your face [LAURA _crosses to dresser quickly, picks up hand mirror,
and looks at herself._], and you hide in the house because you've
nothing new to wear.
LAURA. [_Puts down mirror, crossing down to back of bed._] But I've
got what you haven't got. I may have to hide my clothes, but I don't
have to hide my face. And you with that man--he's old enough to be
your father--a toddling dote hanging on your apron-strings. I don't
see how you dare show your face to a decent woman.
ELFIE. [_Rises._] You don't!--but you did once and I never caught you
hanging your head. You say he's old. I know he's old, but he's good to
me. He's making what's left of my life pleasant. You think I like him.
I don't,--sometimes I hate him,--but he understands; and you can bet
your life his check is in my mail every Saturday night or there's a
new lock on the door Sunday morning. [_Crossing to fireplace._
LAURA. How can you say such things to me?
ELFIE. [_Crosses to left end of table._] Because I want you to be
square with yourself. You've lost all that precious virtue women gab
about. When you've got the name, I say get the game.
LAURA. You can go now, Elfie, and don't come back.
ELFIE. [_Gathering up muff, &c._] All right, if that's the way you
want it to be, I'm sorry. [_A knock on the door._
LAURA. [_Controlling herself after a moment's hesitation._] Come in.
ANNIE _enters with a note, crosses, and hands it to_ LAURA.
ANNIE. Mis' Farley sent dis, Miss Laura.
[LAURA _takes the note and reads it. She is palpably annoyed_.
LAURA. There's no answer.
ANNIE. She tol' me not to leave until Ah got an answah.
LAURA. You must ask her to wait.
ANNIE. She wants an answah.
LAURA. Tell her I'll be right down--that it will be all right.
ANNIE. But, Miss Laura, she tol' me to get an answah.
[_Exit reluctantly_.
LAURA. [_Half to herself and half to_ ELFIE.] She's taking advantage
of your being here. [_Standing near door_.
ELFIE. How?
LAURA. She wants money--three weeks' room-rent. I presume she thought
you'd give it to me.
ELFIE. Huh! [_Moves to left_.
LAURA. [_Crossing to table_.] Elfie, I've been a little cross; I
didn't mean it.
ELFIE. Well?
LAURA. Could--could you lend me thirty-five dollars until I get to
work?
ELFIE. Me?
LAURA. Yes.
ELFIE. Lend _you_ thirty-five dollars?
LAURA. Yes; you've got plenty of money to spare.
ELFIE. Well, you certainly have got a nerve.
LAURA. You might give it to me. I haven't a dollar in the world, and
you pretend to be such a friend to me!
ELFIE. [_Turning and angrily speaking across table_.] So that's the
kind of woman you are, eh? A moment ago you were going to kick me out
of the place because I wasn't decent enough to associate with you.
You know how I live. You know how I get my money--the same way you got
most of yours. And now that you've got this spasm of goodness I'm not
fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts.
You'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while
you try to play the grand lady. I've got your number now, Laura. Where
in hell is your virtue anyway? You can go to the devil--rich, poor, or
any other way. I'm off! ELFIE _rushes toward door; for a moment_ LAURA
_stands speechless, then bursts into hysterics_.
LAURA. Elfie! Elfie! Don't go now! Don't leave me now! [ELFIE
_hesitates with hand on door-knob_.] I can't stand it. I can't be
alone. Don't go, please; don't go.
LAURA _falls into_ ELFIE'S _arms, sobbing. In a moment_ ELFIE'S _whole
demeanour changes and she melts into the tenderest womanly sympathy,
trying her best to express herself in her crude way_.
ELFIE. There, old girl, don't cry, don't cry. You just sit down here
and let me put my arms around you. [ELFIE _leads_ LAURA _over to
armchair, places muff, &c., in chair, and sits_ LAURA _down in chair_.
ELFIE _sits on right arm of chair with her left arm behind_ LAURA;
_hugs_ LAURA _to her_. LAURA _in tears and sobbing during scene_.]
I'm awful sorry--on the level, I am. I shouldn't have said it. I know
that. But I've got feelings too, even if folks don't give me credit
for it.
LAURA. I know, Elfie. I've gone through about all I can stand.
ELFIE. Well, I should say you have--and more than I would. Anyway a
good cry never hurts any woman. I have one myself, sometimes--under
cover.
LAURA. [_More seriously, recovering herself_.] Perhaps what you said
was true.
ELFIE. We won't talk about it.
[_Wiping_ LAURA'S _eyes and kissing her_.
LAURA. [_With persistence_.] But perhaps it was true, and, Elfie--
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. I think I've stood this just as long as I can. Every day is a
living horror.
ELFIE. [_Looking around room_.] It's the limit.
LAURA. I've got to have money to pay the rent. I've pawned everything
I have, except the clothes on my back.
ELFIE. I'll give you all the money you need, dearie. Great heavens,
don't worry about that. Don't you care if I got sore and--and lost my
head.
LAURA. No; I can't let you do that. [_Rises; crosses to table_.] You
may have been mad,--awfully mad,--but what you said was the truth. I
can't take your money. [_Sits right of table_.
ELFIE. Oh, forget that. [_Rises, crosses to centre_.
LAURA. Maybe--maybe if he knew all about it--the suffering--he
wouldn't blame me.
ELFIE. Who--the good man who wanted to lead you to the good life
without even a bread-basket for an advance-agent? Huh!
LAURA. Still he doesn't know how desperately poor I am.
ELFIE. He knows you're out of work, don't he?
LAURA. [_Turning to_ ELFIE.] Not exactly. I've let him think that I'm
getting along all right.
ELFIE. Then you're a chump. Hasn't he sent you anything?
LAURA. He hasn't anything to send.
ELFIE. Well, what does he think you're going to live on?--asphalt
croquettes with conversation sauce?
LAURA. I don't know--I don't know. [_Sobbing_.
ELFIE. [_Crosses to_ LAURA, _puts arms around her_.] Don't be foolish,
dearie. You know there is somebody waiting for you--somebody who'll be
good to you and get you out of this mess.
LAURA. You mean Will Brockton? [_Looking up_.
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. Do you know where he is?
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. Well?
ELFIE. You won't get sore again if I tell you, will you?
LAURA. No--why? [_Rises_.
ELFIE. He's downstairs--waiting in the car. I promised to tell him
what you said.
LAURA. Then it was all planned, and--and--
ELFIE. Now, dearie, I knew you were up against it, and I wanted to
bring you two together. He's got half of the Burgess shows, and if
you'll only see him everything will be fixed.
LAURA. When does he want to see me?
ELFIE. Now.
LAURA. Here?
ELFIE. Yes. Shall I tell him to come up?
LAURA. [_After a long pause, crossing around to bed, down-stage
side_.] Yes.
ELFIE. [_Suddenly becomes animated_.] Now you're a sensible dear. I'll
bet he's half frozen down there. [_Goes to door_.] I'll send him up.
Look at you, Laura, you're a sight. [_Crosses to_ LAURA, _takes her
by hand, leads her up to washstand, takes towel and wipes_ LAURA'S
_eyes_.] It'll never do to have him see you looking like this; come
over here and let me fix your eyes. Now, Laura, I want you to promise
me you won't do any more crying. [_Leads_ LAURA _over to dresser,
takes powder-puff and powders_ LAURA'S _face_.] Come over here and let
me powder your nose. Now when he comes up you tell him he has got to
blow us all off to a dinner to-night at Martin's, seven-thirty. Let me
look at you. Now you're all right. [_After daubing_ LAURA'S _face with
the rouge paw_, ELFIE _takes_ LAURA'S _face in her hands and kisses
her_.] Make it strong now, seven-thirty, don't forget. I'll be there.
[_Crosses to armchair, gathers up muff, &c_.] So long.
[_Exit_.
_After_ ELFIE'S _exit_ LAURA _crosses slowly to wardrobe, pulls off
picture of_ JOHN; _crosses to dresser, takes picture of_ JOHN _from
there; carries both pictures over to bed; kneels on bed, pulls down
picture at head of bed; places all three pictures under pillow_. WILL
_is heard coming upstairs, and knocks_.
LAURA. Come in.
WILL _enters. His dress is that of a man of business, the time being
about February. He is well groomed and brings with him the impression
of easy luxury_.
WILL. [_As he enters_.] Hello, Laura.
_There is an obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. She
rises, goes to him and extends her hand_.
LAURA. I'm--I'm glad to see you, Will.
WILL. Thank you.
LAURA. Won't you sit down?
WILL. [_Regaining his ease of manner_.] Thank you again.
[_Puts hat and cane at end of wardrobe; removes overcoat and places it
on back of armchair; sits in armchair_.
LAURA. [_Sits right of table_.] It's rather cold out, isn't it?
WILL. Just a bit sharp.
LAURA. You came with Elfie in the car?
WILL. She picked me up at Martin's; we lunched there.
LAURA. By appointment?
WILL. I'd asked her.
LAURA. Well?
WILL. Well, Laura.
LAURA. She told you?
WILL. Not a great deal. What do you want to tell me?
LAURA. [_Very simply, and avoiding his glance_.] Will, I'm ready to
come back.
WILL. [_With an effort concealing his sense of triumph and
satisfaction. Rises, crosses to_ LAURA.] I'm mighty glad of that,
Laura. I've missed you like the very devil.
LAURA. Do we--do we have to talk it over much?
[_Crosses to left of table in front of bed_.
WILL. Not at all unless you want to. I understand--in fact, I always
have.
LAURA. [_Wearily_.] Yes, I guess you always did. I didn't.
[_Crosses and sits right of table_.
WILL. It will be just the same as it was before, you know.
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. I didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way I
have you. I've been lonely.
LAURA. That's nice in you to say that.
WILL. You'll have to move out of here right away. [_Crossing to back
of table, surveying room_.] This place is enough to give one the
colly-wabbles. If you'll be ready to-morrow I'll send my man over to
help you take care of the luggage.
LAURA. To-morrow will be all right, thank you.
WILL. And you'll need some money in the meantime. I'll leave this
here.
[_He takes a roll of bills and places it on the bureau_.
LAURA. You seem to have come prepared. Did Elfie and you plan this all
out?
WILL. Not planned--just hoped. I think you'd better go to some nice
hotel now. Later we can arrange.
[_Sits on up-stage side of bed_.
LAURA. Will, we'll always be frank. I said I was ready to go. It's up
to you--when and where.
WILL. The hotel scheme is the best, but, Laura--
LAURA. Yes?
WILL. You're quite sure this is in earnest. You don't want to change?
You've time enough now.
LAURA. I've quite made up my mind. It's final.
WILL. If you want to work, Burgess has a nice part for you. I'll
telephone and arrange if you say so.
LAURA. Thanks. Say I'll see him in the morning.
WILL. And, Laura, you know when we were in Denver, and--
LAURA. [_Rises hurriedly; crosses right_.] Please, please, don't speak
of it.
WILL. I'm sorry, but I've got to. I told [_Rises, and crosses to
left_.] Madison [LAURA _turns her head_.]--pardon me, but I must do
this--that if this time ever came I'd have you write him the truth.
Before we go any further I'd like you to do that now.
LAURA. Say good-bye? [_Turns to_ WILL.
WILL. Just that.
LAURA. I wouldn't know how to begin. It will hurt him awfully deeply.
WILL. It'll be worse if you don't. He'll like you for telling him. It
would be honest, and that is what he expects.
LAURA. Must I--now?
WILL. I think you should.
LAURA. [_Goes to table and sits down_.] How shall I begin, Will?
WILL. [_Standing back of table_.] You mean you don't know what to say?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Then I'll dictate.
LAURA. I'll do just as you say. You're the one to tell me now.
WILL. Address it the way you want to. [_She complies_.] I'm going to
be pretty brutal. In the long run I think that is best, don't you?
LAURA. It's up to you.
WILL. Ready?
LAURA. Begin.
WILL. [_Dictating_.] "All I have to say can be expressed in one word,
'good-bye.' I shall not tell you where I've gone, but remind you
of what Brockton told you the last time he saw you. He is here now
[_Pause_.], dictating this letter. What I am doing is voluntary--my
own suggestion. Don't grieve. Be happy and successful. I do not love
you"--
[_She puts pen down; looks at him_.
LAURA. Will--please.
WILL. It has got to go just that way--"I do not love you." Sign
it "Laura." [_She does it_.] Fold it, put it in an envelope--seal
it--address it. Now shall I mail it?
LAURA. No. If you don't mind I'd sooner. It's a sort of a last--last
message.
WILL. [_Crosses to armchair; gets coat, puts it on_.] All right.
You're a little upset now, and I'm going. We are all to dine at
Martin's to-night at seven-thirty. There'll be a party. Of course
you'll come. [_Gets hat and cane_.
LAURA. I don't think I can. You see--
WILL. I know. I guess there's enough there [_Indicating money_.] for
your immediate needs. Later you can straighten things up. Shall I send
the car?
LAURA. Yes, please.
WILL. Good. It will be the first happy evening I've had in a long,
long time. You'll be ready?
[_Approaches and bends over her as if to caress her_.
LAURA. [_Shrinking away_.] Please don't. Remember we don't dine until
seven-thirty.
WILL. All right. [_Exit_.
_For a moment_ LAURA _sits silent, and then angrily rises, crosses
up to dresser, gets alcohol lamp, crosses to table with lamp, lights
same, and starts back to dresser. Knock at door_.
LAURA. Come in. [ANNIE _enters, and stops_.] That you, Annie?
ANNIE. Yassum.
LAURA. Mrs. Farley wants her rent. There is some money. [_Tosses money
on to table_.] Take it to her.
ANNIE _goes to the table, examines the roll of bills and is palpably
surprised_.
ANNIE. Dey ain't nothin' heah, Miss Laura, but five great big one
hunderd dollah bills.
LAURA. Take two. And look in that upper drawer. You'll find some pawn
tickets there. [ANNIE _complies_.
ANNIE. Yassum. [_Aside_.] Dat's real money--dem's yellow-backs sure.
LAURA. Take the two top ones and go get my lace gown and one of
the hats. The ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. Keep ten for
yourself, and hurry.
ANNIE. [_Aside_.] Ten for myself--I never see so much money. [_To_
LAURA, _her astonishment nearly overcoming her_.] Yassum, Miss Laura,
yassum. [_She goes toward door, and then turns to_ LAURA.] Ah'm so
mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, Miss Laura. I says to Mis' Farley
now--
LAURA. [_Snapping her off_.] Don't--don't. Go do as I tell you and
mind your business. [ANNIE _turns sullenly and walks toward the door.
At that moment_ LAURA _sees the letter, which she has thrown on the
table_.] Wait a minute. I want you to mail a letter. [_By this time
her hair is half down, hanging loosely over her shoulders. Her waist
is open at the throat, collar off, and she has the appearance of a
woman's untidiness when she is at that particular stage of her toilet.
Hands letter to_ ANNIE, _but snatches it away as_ ANNIE _turns to
go. She glances at the letter long and wistfully, and her nerve fails
her_.] Never mind.
ANNIE _exits. Slowly_ LAURA _puts the letter over the flame of the
alcohol lamp and it ignites. As it burns she holds it in her fingers,
and when half consumed throws it into waste-jar, sits on side of bed
watching letter burn, then lies down across bed on her elbows, her
chin in her hands, facing audience. As the last flicker is seen the
curtain slowly descends_.
CURTAIN.