ANNIE. [In a happy voice.] Yassum, yassum.
LAURA. [Who is arranging her hair.] Doll me
up, Annie.
ANNIE. Yuh goin’ out, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Yes. I’m going to Rector’s
to make a hit, and to hell with the rest!
At this moment the hurdy-gurdy in the street, presumably
immediately under her window, begins to play the tune
of “Bon-Bon Buddie, My Chocolate Drop.”
There is something in this ragtime melody which is
particularly and peculiarly suggestive of the low life,
the criminality and prostitution that constitute the
night excitement of that section of New York City
known as the Tenderloin. The tune,—its
association,—is like spreading before
LAURA’S eyes a panorama of the inevitable
depravity that awaits her. She is torn from every
ideal that she so weakly endeavoured to grasp, and
is thrown into the mire and slime at the very moment
when her emancipation seems to be assured. The
woman, with her flashy dress in one arm and her equally
exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, is nearly
prostrated by the tune and the realization of the
future as it is terrifically conveyed to her.
The negress, in the happiness of serving LAURA
in her questionable career, picks up the melody
and hums it as she unpacks the finery that has been
put away in the trunk.
LAURA. [With infinite grief, resignation, and hopelessness.]
O God—O my God. [She turns and totters
toward the bedroom. The hurdy-gurdy continues,
with the negress accompanying it.
