[During the song FITZSIMMONS turns his head slowly and looks at her with
growing admiration.]
MAUD. How did you like it?
FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] Rotten. Anybody could tell it was a boy's
voice--
MAUD. Oh!
FITZSIMMONS. It is rough and coarse and it cracked on every high note.
MAUD. Oh! Oh!
[Recollecting herself and shrugging her shoulders.] Oh, very well. Now
let's see if you can do any better with the bag.
[FITZSIMMONS takes off coat and gives exhibition.]
[MAUD looks on in an ecstasy of admiration.]
MAUD. [As he finishes.] Beautiful! Beautiful!
[FITZSIMMONS puts on coat and goes over and sits down near table.]
Nothing like the bag to limber one up. I feel like a fighting cock.
Harry, let's go out on a toot, you and I.
MAUD. Wh-a-a-t?
FITZSIMMONS. A toot. You know--one of those rip-snorting nights you
used to make.
MAUD. [Emphatically, as she picks up newspapers from leather chair, sits
down, and places them on her lap.] I'll do nothing of the sort.
I've--I've reformed.
FITZSIMMONS. You used to joy-ride like the very devil.
MAUD. I know it.
FITZSIMMONS. And you always had a pretty girl or two along.
MAUD. [Boastfully, in mannish, fashion.] Oh, I still have my fling. Do
you know any--well,--er,--nice girls?
FITZSIMMONS. Sure.
MAUD. Put me wise.
FITZSIMMONS. Sure. You know Jack Sylvester?