LINDA: Go back with the show?

MRS. O’FALLON: Oh, so it was show business you was workin’ in, was it?

LINDA [a little defiantly]: Yes, it was.

MRS. O’FALLON [significantly]: Humph! Well, well! An actress! And did you git fired?

LINDA [restraining]: Why, no, I did not.

MRS. O’FALLON: Then take my advice. Go back to yer show business, girl. Jim Flynn ain’t hardly a grown man, yit . . .

LINDA [quietly]: He’s my husband, Mrs. O’Fallon.

MRS. O’FALLON: Oh, I’m aware of that. I made him show me the license ere ever I gave him permission to bring you in. I know these young people!

LINDA [desperately]: Oh, Mrs. O’Fallon! Jim and I are so happy here. So completely happy. Don’t you see—if I went back to the show—all of this would end—we’d be separated—we’d lose each other! [Covers her face with her hands.] This wonderful thing that we’ve made together—this magic tower—would fall to pieces—it would all be ruined!

MRS. O’FALLON: What kind o’ nonsense is this!

LINDA: I’m sorry.

MRS. O’FALLON: You show people! Always putting on an act! I had one before. A Shakespearean actor, he was! Started recitin’ Hamlet’s solitary ev’ry time I ast him for the rent! Couldn’t get a word in edgewise! Humph! I finally had to throw his stuff out the window! Well, I just wanted to warn you, Mrs. Flynn. I have to be more strict about payments from married couples than from single young men—good night! [She starts to leave. Just then Jim enters. He playfully slaps at Mrs. O’Fallon. She instantly thaws.]

JIM: Hello, old sour puss! What’s up?

MRS. O’FALLON: Git along with you, Jimmy! Always fooling around, you are! You oughta be trounced! [Mrs. O’Fallon exits rather mincingly. Jim thumbs his nose at her back as she closes the door.]

LINDA [after a moment]: Oh, that horrible woman! She gives me the creeps!

JIM: What was it about? The rent? Poor old Linda! She’s always picking on you! Lookit here! [From under his coat he produces a drumstick and an evening paper.] Success! Here! That’s for you!

LINDA: You eat it, Jim. I’m not hungry.

JIM: Aren’t you really? Well, I am, all right. [He lies on couch reading the paper and gnawing the drumstick. Linda picks up some sewing. Her face resumes its former quiet smile.]

LINDA [softly]: I’m glad that you’re back. It’s so much nicer now.

JIM [absorbed in paper]: Hmmm.

LINDA: In a minute I’ll forget everything that she said!

JIM [jumping up suddenly, his face ecstatic]: He’s here, Linda, he’s here!

LINDA [startled and amused]: What on earth are you howling about? The new chimpanzee at the zoo?

JIM: A fine way to speak of our future patron!

LINDA [aroused]: Our future patron?

JIM [springs toward her, brandishing paper]: T. Anthony Wescott, the most famous art dealer in Europe. The man who discovered half the modern masters. Arrived this morning aboard the Île de France. Stopping at the Waldorf-Astoria. [Reads from the paper.] “I am here on business,” says Mr. Westcott, “My business is to review the best of contemporary American art. I am especially interested in the work of struggling young men of talent who have not yet acquired a reputation. I shall be the Christopher Columbus of modern art!”