LAURA. [Positively.] They were good times.—­Except that you wouldn’t have me.

KEN.  I was an idiot.

LAURA.  Such a charming idiot.

MARTIN.  Looks as if you maybe like that fellow.

LAURA.  Mm.  A little bit.

KEN.  She won’t admit it, but she likes me a lot.

MARTIN.  I’ll be hanged if I see why.

LAURA.  It’s a mystery to me, too.

TIPPY.  And after all this time!

LAURA.  It’s queer, isn’t it?  Often I look at him and I say why, out of all the millions of men—­handsome men, brilliant men, wealthy men—­did I fall in love with him?

MARTIN.  And when you might have had me!

TIPPY. [With a terrible yowl.] Oh, sweet mystery of life ...

KEN.  My God!

TIPPY.  I won’t even ask how things are!  You look so damned all right.

LAURA.  On two salaries and no babies, who wouldn’t?  May I lend you the price of a rented Tuxedo so you can come to dinner without embarrassing our butler?

KEN.  Yeah—­when we get the bedroom set paid for we’re going to exchange the radio for a Cadillac.

LAURA.  Oh, Martin!  If you have any original drawings unsold, just name your price.  All we have on the walls now is the Horse Fair and the Last Supper.  But mind you—­art only, no propaganda.

MARTIN.  I’ll do a charcoal of the Palisades for you.

LAURA.  I forbid it.  They’re an invitation to suicide.

TIPPY.  He’ll draw the Palisades from the bottom looking up.  That’s an invitation to climb.

KEN.  There’s a lot in the point of view!

LAURA.  Good!  Climbing is much more fun than jumping off!

KEN.  All one needs is a toehold to get started.

TIPPY.  I say, Ken, so you feel really started now?

KEN.  I sure do.

TIPPY.  That’s great!

MARTIN.  When you get to the top, don’t push anyone off.

TIPPY.  There is plenty of room on top of the Palisades.

MARTIN.  You’ve stacked the analogy on me.  Most mountains don’t have flat tops.

KEN.  Ah, hell, Martin, you’re just being stubborn.  Kate showed us your drawing in the New Yorker.

LAURA.  We liked it a lot.

KEN.  That’s your toehold.  When you’ve sold them six you’ll be back to pink socialism.  And soon you’ll be mailing things to the Saturday Evening Post—­and signing them!

LAURA.  Don’t rub it in, dear.

KEN.  I’m not rubbing it in.  I was once as radical as Martin.

TIPPY.  Ken, Ken—­don’t exaggerate.  As an architect, you must keep your perspective.

KEN.  I was ready to go to Russia, wasn’t I?

MARTIN.  Oh yeah!

KEN.  I used to get sore as a pup when people said a man was radical only because he was unemployed.  But it’s true.  I know because I’ve lived through it.  A man’s political views are colored by his situation.