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.