HAROLD. Yes--I did say that--I don't want her to forgive me, now. I am reconciled to my fate.

ISABEL. Ah--but I'm afraid it's too late, now!

HAROLD. What do you mean?

ISABEL. I mean that your other letters will have done their work. Your wife by this time has been convinced of your innocence--she realizes that she has acted rashly--she is ready to forgive you. And she is probably at this moment on her way to New York to tell you so, and take you back home!

HAROLD. (_frightened_) No!

ISABEL. Yes! If she is not already here and looking for you....

HAROLD. Impossible!

ISABEL. Those letters were very convincing, Harold!

HAROLD. (_shaking his head_) Not in the face of the universal belief of all Evanston in my guilt.

ISABEL. Then she has forgiven you anyway.

HAROLD. (_sadly_) You do not know her.

ISABEL. Don't I? No, Harold, this is to be our last breakfast together.

You wouldn't have her walk in on us, would you?--And that reminds me.

We're out of coffee. You must go and get some while I dress. And go to the little French bakery for some brioches.

HAROLD. In these clothes?

ISABEL. Or Jim's. Just as you like.

HAROLD. Very well. I shall go as I am. (_Gloomily_) After all, I don't know why I should mind one more farcical touch to my situation. A grown man that doesn't know how to earn his living--

ISABEL. I've suggested several ways.

HAROLD. Yes, acting! No. I'd rather starve.

ISABEL. There are other alternatives.

HAROLD. Yes. Looking over the scientific magazines and finding out about new inventions, and writing little pieces about them and selling that to other magazines!

ISABEL. Why not?

HAROLD. A pretty job for a poet! What do _I_ know about machinery?

ISABEL. All the poets I know pay their rent that way. And they none of them know anything about machinery.

HAROLD. All right. I'm in a crazy world. Everything's topsy-turvy. Even the streets have gone insane. They wind and twist until they cross their own tracks. I _know_ I'll get lost looking for that French bakery. (_He goes to the door_.) Greenwich Village! My G.o.d!

_He goes out. She, after a moment, goes into the back room. The charwoman enters, and commences to clean up the place. Isabel comes back, partly clothed and with the rest of her things on her arm, and finishes her toilet in front of the mirror. A sort of conversation ensues_.

THE CHARWOMAN. A grand day it's going to be.

ISABEL. (_after a pause_)--Do you think I'm a bad woman, Mrs. Murphy?

MRS. MURPHY. Come, now, it's not a fair question, and me workin' for you. I've no call to be criticizin' the way you do behave. It's my business to be cleanin' up the place, and if 'tis a nest of paganism, sure 'tis not for my own soul to answer for it at the Judgment Day. And a blessed thought it is, too, that they that follow after the l.u.s.ts of the flesh must go to h.e.l.l, or else who knows what a poor soul like me would do sometimes, what with seein' the carryin's-on that one does see. But I'd not be breathin' a word against a nice young lady like yourself.

ISABEL. What do you think of Mr. Falcington?

MRS. MURPHY. Well, as my sister that's dead in Ireland used to say, and we two girls together, "Sure," she said, "there's no accountin' for tastes," she said. And you with a fine grand man the like of Mr. Jim, to be takin' up with a lost sheep like this one. But I'd not be sayin'

a word against him, for it's a pretty boy he is, to be sure. Well, there's a Last Day comin' for us all, and the sooner the better, the way the young do be shiftin' and changin' as the fancy takes them. I say nothin' at all, nothin' at all--but if you've a quarrel had with Mr. Jim, why don't you make it up with him?

ISABEL. But Jim and I aren't married either, you know.

MRS. MURPHY. It's too soft you are, that's why. You take no for an answer, as a girl shouldn't. Let you keep at him long enough, and he'll give in. Sure the youth of this generation have no regard for their proper rights. Never was a man yet that couldn't be come around, if he was taken in his weakness. A silk dress or a wedding ring or shoes for the baby, it's all the same--they have to be coaxed twice for every one thing they do. It's the nature of the beast, so it is, G.o.d help us.

Well I remember how my sister that's dead in Ireland used to say, and we girls together, "Sure," says she, "it's woman's place to ask," says she, "and man's to refuse," says she, "and woman's to ask again," says she. Widow that I am this ten year, I could tell you some things now-- but I'll not be sayin' a word.

ISABEL. Do I look all right?

MRS. MURPHY. It's pretty as a flower you look, Miss. And I'd not be askin' questions, for it's none of my business at all, but who are you fixin' yourself up for to-day, if you know yourself?

ISABEL. What difference does it make? I go into rehearsal next week, and there's a manager that will want to make love to me, and he's fat, and I'll get to hate and loathe the sight of male mankind--and this is my last week to enjoy myself! (_She goes to the door at the back_.) Besides, Jim may have another girl by this time, or Mr. Falcington's wife may come.

_She goes into the inner room_.

MRS. MURPHY. His wife--G.o.d help us!

_She shakes her head, and starts to go out.

There is a knock. She opens the door, and admits a woman in a travelling suit_.

THE WOMAN. Is Mr. Falcington here?

MRS. MURPHY. (_disingenuously_) There's a party of that name on the east side of the Square if I'm not mistaken, ma'am, in the Bened.i.c.k, bachelor apartments like--'tis there you might inquire.

THE WOMAN. There's no Mr. Falcington here?

MRS. MURPHY. On another floor, maybe. 'Tis a lady lives here.

_The woman turns to go_.

ISABEL. (_within_) Who is asking for Mr. Falcington?

THE WOMAN. I am Mrs. Falcington,--his wife.

ISABEL. (_at the inner door_) Oh!

MRS. FALCINGTON. And you are Isabel Summers?

ISABEL. Yes.