GRACE: Blanche, I’ve had about enough morbid talk for one hot afternoon’s entertainment! Please stop! Read a book! Get busy at something! Or go out and see a good movie!

JACK: You want me to drop you off at a picture-show, Blanche?

BLANCHE: Thank you, no! [She returns to the dresser.] Come here, Jack.

[Jack has started for the door.]

JACK: Huh?

BLANCHE: Come here for a minute.

JACK: What for?

BLANCHE: I want to kiss you.

[He looks at Grace.]

GRACE: Well, well.

BLANCHE: You, too, Grace, I want to kiss you both. Please, please! [She is suddenly very sweet and charming. They stand off looking at her. Her expression changes.] What is the matter? Am I disgusting to you? Have I grown so old and hideous that neither of you can bear any contact with me? [Then she turns mockingly to Jack.] That’s not what you were saying a moment ago when you were pretending to be so busy with your shoes!

[He glances again, helplessly, at Grace. Then he walks quickly to the outside door.]

JACK: Bye, Grace! [He goes out.]

[Blanche laughs sadly and mockingly and picks up her hair brush again. Grace stares at her a moment longer: then goes back to the upstage room. She sinks into a chair, in view through the portieres. She rubs her temples with the palms of her hands, a slow rotation as if to ease a headache. Blanche stops brushing her hair and lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. The phone rings. Blanche springs up. Grace rises to answer it. Blanche leans forward tensely.]

GRACE: Oh! —Just a moment.

BLANCHE [in a whisper that doesn’t reach Grace]: George? George?

[Grace returns to the phone.]

GRACE: Yes, he took it, Harry. At least it isn’t parked in front of the house. All right. Good luck! [Hangs up. A look of desolation settles again on Blanche’s face. Grace, in the other room, turns on the radio. Then she comes through portieres. Doorbell rings.] My goodness, the phone and the doorbell, the doorbell and the phone! Will you answer it, Blanche?

BLANCHE: I’m not dressed.

GRACE: You have enough on.

BLANCHE: Some women go to the door in a negligee but those women are more likely to be Kiefabers than Shannons—if you will excuse me for drawing so fine a distinction!

GRACE: Ha-ha! —That’s almost funny! [Crosses over.] Dame Blanche! [She opens the door for a tradesman or bill collector. The following dialogue is part real and part imagined by Blanche. Only the allusions to the bill and the money are actual, the rest is auditory hallucination.]

BILL COLLECTOR: Morning, Mrs. Kiefaber. How’s things going?

GRACE: So-so.

BILL COLLECTOR: Only so-so, huh?

GRACE: How much is it?

BILL COLLECTOR: Well, a dollar an’ twenty-two cents will just about do it. [Then, whispering.] Where is Blanche?

GRACE [whispering]: In the next room.

BILL COLLECTOR: Tell her that George is through with her.