MAUD. [Springing to her feet.] Oh! I never did! [Recollecting
herself.] Perhaps I must have. I was a trifle wild in those days, I
admit. But I'm wise now. I've sowed my wild oats and steadied down.
FITZSIMMONS. I'm glad to hear that, Harry. You were tearing off a
pretty fast pace in those days. [Pause, in which MAUD nods.] Still
punch the bag?
MAUD. [In quick alarm, glancing at punching bag.] No, I've got out of
the hang of it.
FITZSIMMONS. [Reproachfully.] You haven't forgotten that
right-and-left, arm, elbow and shoulder movement I taught you?
MAUD. [With hesitation.] N-o-o.
FITZSIMMONS. [Moving toward bag to left.] Then, come on.
MAUD. [Rising reluctantly and following.] I'd rather see you punch the
bag. I'd just love to.
FITZSIMMONS. I will, afterward. You go to it first.
MAUD. [Eyeing the bag in alarm.] No; you. I'm out of practice.
FITZSIMMONS. [Looking at her sharply.] How many drinks have you had to-
night?
MAUD. Not a one. I don't drink--that is--er--only occasionally.
FITZSIMMONS. [Indicating bag.] Then go to it.
MAUD. No; I tell you I am out of practice. I've forgotten it all. You
see, I made a discovery.
[Pauses.]
FITZSIMMONS. Yes?
MAUD. I--I--you remember what a light voice I always had--almost
soprano?
[FITZSIMMONS nods.]
MAUD. Well, I discovered it was a perfect falsetto.
[FITZSIMMONS nods.]
MAUD. I've been practising it ever since. Experts, in another room,
would swear it was a woman's voice. So would you, if you turned your
back and I sang.
FITZSIMMONS. [Who has been laughing incredulously, now becomes
suspicious.] Look here, kid, I think you are an impostor. You are not
Harry Jones at all.
MAUD. I am, too.
FITZSIMMONS. I don't believe it. He was heavier than you.
MAUD. I had the fever last summer and lost a lot of weight.
FITZSIMMONS. You are the Harry Jones that got sousesd and had to be put
to bed?
MAUD. Y-e-s.
FITZSIMMONS. There is one thing I remember very distinctly. Harry Jones
had a birth mark on his knee. [He looks at her legs searchingly.]
MAUD. [Embarrassed, then resolving to carry it out.] Yes, right here.
[She advances right leg and touches it.]
FITZSIMMONS. [Triumphantly.] Wrong. It was the other knee.
MAUD. I ought to know.
FITZSIMMONS. You haven't any birth mark at all.
MAUD. I have, too.
FITZSIMMONS. [Suddenly springing to her and attempting to seize her
leg.] Then we'll prove it. Let me see.
MAUD. [In a panic backs away from him and resists his attempts, until
grinning in an aside to the audience, he gives over. She, in an aside to
audience.] Fancy his wanting to see my birth mark.
FITZSIMMONS. [Bullying.] Then take a go at the bag. [She shakes her
head.] You're not Harry Jones.
MAUD. [Approaching punching bag.] I am, too.
FITZSIMMONS. Then hit it.
MAUD. [Resolving to attempt it, hits bag several nice blows, and then is
struck on the nose by it.] Oh!
[Recovering herself and rubbing her nose.] I told you I was out of
practice. You punch the bag, Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. I will, if you will show me what you can do with that
wonderful soprano voice of yours.
MAUD. I don't dare. Everybody would think there was a woman in the
club.
FITZSIMMONS. [Shaking his head.] No, they won't. They've all gone to
the fight. There's not a soul in the building.
MAUD. [Alarmed, in a weak voice.] Not--a--soul--in--the building?
FITZSIMMONS. Not a soul. Only you and I.
MAUD. [Starting hurriedly toward door.] Then I must go.
FITZSIMMONS. What's your hurry? Sing.
MAUD. [Turning back with new resolve.] Let me see you punch the
bag,--er--Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. You sing first.
MAUD. No; you punch first.