Jessie (hysterically). Dad!  Dad!  I beg you—­have mercy. (Flings herself sobing upon him).

Bob. Really, Dad, you’re treating him pretty badly!

Dad. I haven’t asked your opinion, sir!

Bob. Well, I guess I’ll go with him!

Dad. As you please, sir! (Bob exit.  The Play-play begins to fade).

Will (in low voice). That’s as far as I’ve done. (A pause.) It’s near the end.  What do you think of it?

Pegyy. Why, Will, you know what I told you before—­

Will (in a voice of despair). That it’s all wrong!  That I don’t know how to write a play.  That I’ve got to do it all over!

Peggy. I never said that, Will.  But I told you that you couldn’t put an audience through all those harrowing adventures, and then pile an unhappy ending on top.  You simply can’t get away with such a proposition.

Will. But surely, I can’t have this play end happily!

Peggy. Where’s the law to prevent you?

Will. The law of truth prevents me.

Peggy. What do you mean?  Couldn’t Dad forgive Jack?

Will. No!

Peggy. Why not?

Will. Because Dad hasn’t forgiven me.

Peggy. But Will, there are plenty of other Dads—­and they aren’t all so heartless.  You’ll simply have to choose another father for this play.  You can’t write for your own satisfaction—­you’ve got to think about the box-office.

Will (leaping up and flinging out his hands). Oh, my God!  The box-office!  Have I got to slaughter my artistic instincts to feed the greed of a box-office?  For God’s sake, Peggy, take this play and write it to suit the taste of Broadway!  Or shall I tear up the darned stuff? (Seizes Mss.)

Peggy (interfering). Will!

Will. I’ve got a play written, and you come and tell me to write another.  And when I take it to the manager, he’ll tell me to write a third.  And his wife will read it, and I’ll have to write a fourth!  And then there’s the stage-manager—­perhaps he has a wife too!  Who else, for the love of Mike?

Peggy (laughing). Why there’s the star, and the leading lady—­in this case you’ve got two actresses fighting for precedence, tearing each other’s eyes out over the question of dressing-rooms.  Then there’s the press agent and the property-man, and the dramatic editors of a dozen newspapers, who’ll tell you next morning exactly why your play fell flat. (Puts her arms about him.) Will, dear, don’t be so impatient.  Try to understand what I mean!  Such a frightfully depressing ending—­everybody in the play has lost everything!

Will. But that isn’t so!

Peggy. Jack has lost his wager, and his quarter of a million dollars—­and his home!

Will. But see what he’s gained.