MARY.  Joe!

JOE.  Not nice, is it?  Can’t be helped, of course.  And who cares?  For three months this game has gone on—­we getting shabbier, wretcheder, hungrier—­no one bothers—­all they say is “keep off the pavement.”  Let’s see what’s in the purse.

MARY. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes!

JOE. [Lifting his head as he is on the point of opening the purse.]
That’s the policeman passing.

MARY. [Impatiently.] Never mind that—­

JOE. [Turning to the purse again.] First time in my life I’ve been afraid when I heard the policeman.

     [He has his finger on the catch of the purse when he pauses for
     a moment—­then acting on a sudden impulse, makes a dart for the
     door, opens it, and is out, and up the area steps.

MARY. [With a despairing cry.] Joe!

     [She flings herself on the mattress, and sobs silently, so as
     not to awaken, the child. JOE returns, hanging his head,
     dragging one foot before the other.

MARY. [Still sobbing, but trying to control herself.] Why did you do that?

JOE. [Humbly.] I don’t know—­

MARY.  You gave it to the policeman?

JOE.  Yes.

MARY.  What did you tell him?

JOE.  That you had found it.

MARY.  Where?

JOE.  In a Tube Station.  Picked it up because we were starving.  That we hadn’t opened it.  And that we lived here, in this cellar.

MARY. [With a little shake.] I expect he’ll keep it himself!

JOE. [Miserably.] Perhaps.

     [There is silence for a moment; she has ceased to cry; suddenly
     she raises herself violently on her elbow.

MARY.  You fool!  You fool!

JOE. [Pleading.] Mary!

MARY.  With your stupid ideas of honesty!  What have they done for you, or me?

JOE. [Dropping his head again.] It’s the kiddie, you know—­her being a thief’s daughter—­

MARY.  Is that worse than being the daughter of a pair of miserable beggars?

JOE. [Under his breath.] I suppose it is, somehow—­

MARY.  You’d rather she went hungry?

JOE. [Despairingly.] I don’t know how it was—­hearing his tramp up there—­

MARY.  You were afraid?

JOE.  I don’t want you taken to prison.

MARY. [With a wail.] I’ll be taken to the graveyard soon, in a pauper’s coffin!

JOE. [Starts suddenly.] Suppose we did that?

MARY. [Staring.] The workhouse?

JOE.  Why not, after all?  That’s what it will come to, sooner or later.

MARY.  They’d separate us.

JOE.  At least you and the kiddie’d have food.

MARY.  They’d separate us.  And I love you, Joe.  My poor, poor Joe!  I love you.