So that’s it. Well, thank heaven! (He starts to embrace her)
But that letter you picked up so quickly to-night—was that from somebody else?
Lord, I’d almost forgotten it.
There! And I was almost happy!
For goodness sake, read it!
From your bank.... I don’t understand it.
It’s simple enough. They won’t make me another loan.
Between the unions and the new inspection—well, I can’t finish the Broadway contract on time, and I’m done.
Done. Smashed. I might save ten thousand dollars, that’s all. My life’s work....
You mean money?
I mean the lack of it.
Is that all? Thank heaven!
All! But do you realize it means giving up the house, and beginning all over again on ten thousand dollars?
I don’t care. I was never happy there anyhow. And now I could be happy doing my own work in a tenement.
I think I could be happy as a carpenter again by the day. But the children. It’s going to be hard for them. Walter’s architecture.
Good gracious! Where did you come from?
I came back from the office.... I heard what you were saying. So that’s all right. But you needn’t worry about my architecture. I was telling mother to-night. I don’t like it—it isn’t my work. I only wanted you to feel as I do about it. Just feel that I really want to paint—to be an artist. Even if I have to work at something else for a long time, I’ll feel easier, knowing you realize what I want. I love color so. And I want to let my imagination go. I’ll help in any way I can, naturally. I’m glad too. I mean, I had rather live in the country like this than in New York.