BILL COLLECTOR: All things come apart in time, but some things can’t wait for the time. She was a fool to want anything because she can’t get anything with those weak fingers of hers and wanting something and not getting it and wanting and not getting and wanting and not getting with those weak fingers of hers, and not ever getting but still wanting with those weak fingers of hers. Not getting, not getting, not getting—!

[Blanche, staring down at her hands, suddenly utters a shrill cry. Grace rushes in. The bill collector stands curiously by the portieres.]

GRACE: Blanche! What’s the matter?

BLANCHE [laughing weakly]: I burned myself.

GRACE: What with?

BLANCHE: A—cigarette . . .

GRACE [relieved]: Oh. Not badly?

BLANCHE: No. No—not badly . . . Who is—who is that—man?

GRACE: Why, a collector for the Picayune, honey.

BLANCHE [half reassured]: —Oh. Will you close the portieres, please? Can’t you see I’m not dressed?

GRACE: Sure, Blanche. I’m just trying to dig up some change.

BLANCHE [sharply]: So that is what you were doing? That was the subject of the long conversation? Change? What kind of change, Grace? Good or bad? And whose change, yours or mine?

GRACE [stares at her aghast]: What are you talking about?

BLANCHE [dropping her eyes finally]: Nothing. How long will he stand there looking in at my body?

[Grace makes a despairing gesture and goes back out, closing the portieres. Blanche sinks exhaustedly back into her chair.]

BLANCHE [softly and sorrowfully]: Malice—malice—malice . . . I never could understand it. I’m too soft!

BILL COLLECTOR [leaving]: Thank you, Mrs. Kiefaber. Goodbye. [Door slams.]

[Grace comes slowly and anxiously back through the portieres. There are soft and light cries of children playing on the street. Blanche slowly picks up the brush and resumes brushing her hair, but her face is set in a look of hostility and suspicion.]

GRACE: Blanche, I wish you’d be more open about things with me. We’ve always confided everything to each other but now you’re holding something back. All I know is that you are terribly unhappy over something. I want to help you but can’t unless you tell me.

BLANCHE [in a high, strained voice]: I haven’t the faintest, remotest notion of what you are talking about, Grace Shannon. Pardon me—I mean—Kiefaber! [She utters the name with contempt.]

GRACE: We were getting along so nicely together until just lately. You liked Jack and Jack was so pleased having you here with us and it was so nice for me.

BLANCHE: Don’t worry. I’m moving out the moment I find a vacant room and I don’t care if it’s over a stable!

GRACE: Blanche!

BLANCHE: There’s a limit to what I can put up with!

GRACE: In—me?