Bill. Well, will you tell him to wake me up?

Peggy. No, dear.  I’ll tell him not to.

Bill. But Peggy, will you have him kiss me in my sleep?

Peggy. Yes, I’ll do that.  Now, there you are.  A big fat kiss for mother!  Now, to sleep!

Bill. Say, Peggy!

Peggy. What?

Bill. The people next door ain’t runnin’ the gramophone tonight!

Peggy. No, dear.  Now go to sleep.

Bill. And the people in hack ain’t singin’ any coon-songs!

Peggy. Now go to sleep for mother.  Don’t speak any more.

Bill. Say, Peggy!

Peggy. Well?

Bill. I won’t.  Good night.

Peggy. Good-night!

(She goes Left humming to herself; sits at table, and prepares to work.)

Will (Enters Left softly; a young poet, delicate and sensitive.  He watches PEGGY, then closes door, tiptoes up and leans over her shoulder). Well?

Peggy (starts). Oh, Will, how you frightened me!  Where in the world have you been?

Will. Oh, it’s a long tale.

Peggy. Have you had dinner?

Will. No, I don’t want to eat.

Peggy. What’s the matter?  A new idea?

Will. I’ll tell you, Peggy.  Wait a bit.

Peggy (as he takes mail from pocket). Some mail?

Will. Yes—­all rejection slips.  Nothing but rejection slips! (throws pile of returned manuscripts on the table). How I wish some magazine would get a new kind of rejection slip! (Sits dejectedly.)

Peggy. Did you get any money for the rent?

Will. Not yet, Peggy (suddenly). The truth is, I didn’t try.  Peggy, I’ve got to write that play!

Peggy (Horrified). Will!

Will. I tell you I’ve got to!  That’s what I’ve been doing—­sitting in Union Square, working it over—­ever since lunch time!  It’s a perfectly stunning idea.

Peggy. Oh, Will, I know all that—­but how can you write plays when we must have money?  Money right away!  Money to pay the landlady!  Money to pay the grocer!

Will. But Peggy—­

Peggy. Will, you’ve got to do something that will sell right off the bat—­payment on acceptance!  Short stories!  Sketches!

Will (wildly). But don’t you see that so long as I do short stories and sketches I’m a slave?  I earn just enough to keep us going week by week.  Pot-boiling—­pot-boiling—­year after year!  And youth is going—­life is going!  Peggy, I’ve got to make a bold stroke, do something big and get out of this!

Peggy. But Will, it’s madness!  A play’s the hardest thing of all to sell.  There’s not one chance in a thousand—­a hundred thousand!

Will. But Peggy—­