MISS CAREY:  (After the business.) How did he lose his looks?

ANGELA:  By becoming a lollard.  Listen! (They pull chairs in front of table together, teacups in hand.) It happened on the honeymoon—­ on the train—­as we sat hand in hand, when all at once, the wind through the window, started to blow his hair the wrong way, and oh, Miss Carey, what do you think I discovered?

MISS CAREY:  He had been branded on the head as a criminal.

ANGELA:  Oh nothing so pleasant as that—­but the hair that I thought grew so lovely and plentifully, had been coaxed by a wet brush from the back over the front, and from the east over to the west.  (Indicates by imitating action on her own head.)

MISS CAREY:  Oh, a lollard is a disappointment of the hair.

ANGELA:  No, Miss Carey, no.  Listen.  I said, “Oh, Harry, your hair which I thought grew so evenly and plentifully all over your head really only grows in patches.”  He only answered, “Yes, and now that we’re married, Angela, I don’t have to fool you by brushing it fancy anymore.”  In despair, I moaned “Yes, Harry—­fool me—­go on love, fool me and brush it fancy.”

MISS CAREY; (Rising and crossing R.) That was your first mistake. 
No woman should ever call any man “love.”

ANGELA:  Oh, I didn’t know what I said—­I was so busy the whole journey pulling his hair from the back to the front and the east to the west (Same business of illustrating.)—­and then, oh Miss Carey, what do you think was the next thing I discovered?

MISS CAREY:  (In horror.) His teeth only grew in patches.

ANGELA:  No, but I had fallen in love with a pair of tailor’s shoulder-pads—­yes—­when he took off his coat that night, he shrunk so, I screamed (Pause—­as laugh comes here.)—­thinking I was in a room with a strange man—­but all he muttered was “Angie, I can loll about in easy things now, I’m married”—­and that’s how gradually his refined feet began to look like canal-boats—­his skin only looked kissable the days he shaved—­twice a week—­his teeth became tobacco stained—­and to-night—­to-night, Miss Carey, he stopped wearing hemstitched pajamas and took to wearing canton flannel night shirts. (In depth of woe after the big laugh this gets.) Miss Carey, have you ever seen a man in a canton flannel night shirt?

MISS CAREY:  (After an expression of horror.) I told you I am not married.

ANGELA:  (Innocently.) Oh, excuse me, I was thinking of your boarders.  (MISS CAREY screams “what” and shows herself insulted beyond words.) Is it any wonder my love for him has grown cold?  Men expect a woman to primp up for them—­we must always look our best to hold their love—­but once they wheedle us into signing our names to the marriage contract—­they think (Suddenly, seeing dress again.)—­Oh Miss Carey, what do you charge for a frock like that?

MISS CAREY:  I have no night rates for gowns, Mrs.—­