MAUD. [Growing alarm.] But you won’t have
me arrested?
FITZSIMMONS. I certainly will.
MAUD. [Pleadingly.] Please! Please!
FITZSIMMONS. [Obdurately.] I see no reason why I
should not.
MAUD. [Hurriedly, in a panic.] I’ll give you
a reason—a—a good one.
I—I—am not Harry Jones.
FITZSIMMONS. [Grimly.] A good reason in itself to
call in the police.
MAUD. That isn’t the reason. I’m—a—Oh!
I’m so ashamed.
FITZSIMMONS. [Sternly.] I should say you ought to
be. [Reaches for telephone receiver.]
MAUD. [In rush of desperation.] Stop! I’m
a—I’m a—a girl. There!
[Sinks down in chair, burying her face in her hands.]
[FITZSIMMONS, hanging up receiver, grunts.]
[MAUD removes hands and looks at him indignantly.
As she speaks her indignation grows.]
MAUD. I only wanted your cigarette case to prove
to my brother that I had been here. I—I’m
Maud Sylvester, and you never took me out once.
And I’m not a black sheep. And I don’t
dress loudly, and I haven’t a—a tapeworm.
FITZSIMMONS. [Grinning and pulling out card from
vest pocket.] I knew you were Miss Sylvester all
the time.
MAUD. Oh! You brute! I’ll
never speak to you again.
FITZSIMMONS. [Gently.] You’ll let me see you
safely out of here.
MAUD. [Relenting.] Ye-e-s. [She rises, crosses
to table, and is about to stoop for motor cloak and
bonnet, but he forestall her, holds cloak and helps
her into it.] Thank you. [She takes off wig, fluffs
her own hair becomingly, and puts on bonnet, looking
every inch a pretty young girl, ready for an automobile
ride.]
FITZSIMMONS. [Who, all the time, watching her transformation,
has been growing bashful, now handing her the cigarette
case.] Here’s the cigarette case. You
may k-k-keep it.
MAUD. [Looking at him, hesitates, then takes it.]
I thank you—er—Bob. I
shall treasure it all my life. [He is very embarrassed.]
Why, I do believe you’re bashful. What
is the matter?
FITZSIMMONS. [Stammering.] Why—I—you—You
are a girl—and—a—a—deuced
pretty one.
MAUD. [Taking his arm, ready to start for door.]
But you knew it all along.
FITZSIMMONS. But it’s somehow different now
when you’ve got your girl’s clothes on.
MAUD. But you weren’t a bit bashful—or
nice, when—you—you—[Blurting
it out.] Were so anxious about birth marks.
[They start to make exit.]
