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?

MAUD. [Forgetting herself.] He’s my brother—­

FITZSIMMONS. [Exploding.] What!

MAUD.—­In-law’s first cousin.

FITZSIMMONS. Oh!

MAUD.  So you see I don’t know him very well.  I only met him once—­at the club.  We had a drink together.

FITZSIMMONS. Then you don’t know his sister?

MAUD. [Starting.] His sister?  I—­I didn’t know he had a sister.

FITZSIMMONS. [Enthusiastically.] She’s a peach.  A queen.  A little bit of all right.  A—­a loo-loo.

MAUD. [Flattered.] She is, is she?

FITZSIMMONS. She’s a scream.  You ought to get acquainted with her.

MAUD. [Slyly.] You know her, then?

FITZSIMMONS. You bet.

MAUD. [Aside.] Oh, ho! [To FITZSIMMONS.] Know her very well?

FITZSIMMONS. I’ve taken her out more times than I can remember.  You’ll like her, I’m sure.

MAUD.  Thanks.  Tell me some more about her.

FITZSIMMONS. She dresses a bit loud.  But you won’t mind that.  And whatever you do, don’t take her to eat.

MAUD. [Hiding her chagrin.] Why not?

FITZSIMMONS. I never saw such an appetite—­

MAUD.  Oh!

FITZSIMMONS. It’s fair sickening.  She must have a tapeworm.  And she thinks she can sing.

MAUD.  Yes?

FITZSIMMONS. Rotten.  You can do better yourself, and that’s not saying much.  She’s a nice girl, really she is, but she is the black sheep of the family.  Funny, isn’t it?

MAUD. [Weak voice.] Yes, funny.

FITZSIMMONS. Her brother Jack is all right.  But he can’t do anything with her.  She’s a—­a—­

MAUD. [Grimly.] Yes.  Go on.

FITZSIMMONS. A holy terror.  She ought to be in a reform school.

MAUD. [Springing to her feet and slamming newspapers in his face.] Oh! 
Oh!  Oh!  You liar!  She isn’t anything of the sort!

FITZSIMMONS. [Recovering from the onslaught and making believe he is angry, advancing threateningly on her.] Now I’m going to put a head on you.  You young hoodlum.

MAUD. [All alarm and contrition, backing away from him.] Don’t!  Please don’t!  I’m sorry!  I apologise.  I—­I beg your pardon, Bob.  Only I don’t like to hear girls talked about that way, even—­even if it is true.  And you ought to know.

FITZSIMMONS. [Subsiding and resuming seat.] You’ve changed a lot, I must say.

MAUD. [Sitting down in leather chair.] I told you I’d reformed.  Let us talk about something else.  Why is it girls like prize-fighters?  I should think—­ahem—­I mean it seems to me that girls would think prize-fighters horrid.