They hide in a closet, leaving the door partly open.
Enter Jean, the Pawnbroker's Son. He has on a cutaway suit—a relic of his first and last public concert before the war. His shoulders sag dejectedly and his face is drawn and white. He comes in and sits on the bed. A knock—a determined knock—is heard at the door but Jean does not move. The door opens and his landlady—a shrewish, sharp faced woman of 40—appears. He gets up off the bed when he sees her and bows.
The Landlady—I forgot you was deef or I wouldn't have wasted my time hitting my knuckles against your door.
Jean gazes at her.
The Landlady—Well Mr. Rosen I guess you know why I'm here—it's pay up today or get out.
Jean—Please write it down—you know I cannot hear a word you say. I suppose it's about the rent.
The landlady takes paper and pencil and writes.
The Landlady—(Reading over the result of her labor)—"To-day—is—the—last day. If you can't pay, you must get out."
She hands it to Jean and he reads.
Jean—But I cannot pay. Next week perhaps I shall get work—