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-a-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 couldnt

[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 Im broke. Guess it dont 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 havent anything to wear to the theatre, and I dont

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 havent 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. Dont 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 dont 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.