MISS CAREY:  No, I never will—­catch me selling my freedom to any selfish brute of a man.

ANGELA:  (As before.) See, I knew it.  I said to myself, that little lady on the second floor who makes dresses with a long, thin nose—­

MISS CAREY:  (Outraged.) Makes dresses with a long, thin nose?

ANGELA:  Yes—­she’s the only one in the whole apartment house I can go to—­she’s the only one won’t give Harry right.

MISS CAREY:  No man is ever right.

ANGELA:  I’m commencing to believe all men are brutes.

MISS CAREY:  Of course they are. (Commencing to thaw.) Have a cup of tea. (She goes to table to prepare tea things.)

ANGELA:  Thanks—­I brought my own tea with me. (Takes a little paper bag of tea out of one of the slippers and crosses to MISS CAREY.) If I had struck him with the vase, I could understand his calling me “Vixen” (Beginning to weep again.)—­but I only flung it at him, ’cause I cracked it by accident in the morning, and I didn’t want him to find it out.  He was always calling me “butter-fingers.”  (Sits at opposite side of table.)

MISS CAREY:  Oh, he was always calling you names.

ANGELA:  No, that’s all he ever called me—­“Butter-fingers.” (Cries again.)

MISS CAREY:  (Pouring tea.) Oh, he’s the kind that just loves to stay home and nag.

ANGELA:  I’d like to catch any husband I ever get, nag.

MISS CAREY:  Oh, a pouter—­I know that kind.

ANGELA:  Oh, no.  Why, every time I insulted him he kissed me—­the brute. (After a second’s pause.) But—­excuse me—­how do you know so many kinds of men if you’ve never been married?

MISS CAREY:  (Quickly.) Boarders—­to make ends meet, I’ve always had to have a male boarder since I was left an orphan. (She rises—­turns her back to audience—­gives a touch to her pigtail, during the laugh to this line.  This business always builds laugh.)

ANGELA:  (Absent-mindedly.) Well, I’ve heard that male boarders are very nice.

MISS CAREY:  I’ve never had a nice one yet, but I’ve named nearly all the style male brutes there are.  What kind of a brute have you? (She sips tea.)

ANGELA:  Why, I don’t know—­I’ve often wondered—­you might call Harry a “lollard.”

MISS CAREY:  A lollard?

ANGELA:  Yes, I invented the word, and believe me, a woman suffers with a lollard. (At this, MISS CAREY lets her spoon fall in cup.)

MISS CAREY:  I should think she would.  How did a sweet young thing like you ever meet such a type of a vertebrate?

ANGELA:  At a military ball, and oh Mrs.—­

MISS CAREY:  Miss Carey.

ANGELA:  Miss Carey—­he was the handsomest specimen.  His hair looked so spick—­his shoulders were so big and broad—­his teeth so white—­and his skin, well, Miss Carey, if you’d seen him, I’ll bet you’d have just gone crazy to kiss him yourself. (MISS CAREY, who is drinking tea, nearly chokes on this—­coughing on the tea which goes down the wrong way.)