ANNA—What's the rush? Wait a second. [Forgetting the situation for a moment, she relapses into the familiar form and flashes one of her winning trade smiles at him.] Gee, I'm thirsty.
CHRIS—[Sets down her bag immediately—hastily.] Ay'm sorry, Anna. What you tank you like for drink, eh?
ANNA—[Promptly.] I'll take a—[Then suddenly reminded—confusedly.] I don't know. What'a they got here?
CHRIS—[With a grin.] Ay don't tank dey got much fancy drink for young gel in dis place, Anna. Yinger ale—sas'prilla, maybe.
ANNA—[Forcing a laugh herself.] Make it sas, then.
CHRIS—[Coming up to her—with a wink.] Ay tal you, Anna, we calabrate, yes—dis one time because we meet after many year. [In a half whisper, embarrassedly.] Dey gat good port wine, Anna. It's good for you. Ay tank—little bit—for give you appetite. It ain't strong, neider. One glass don't go to your head, Ay promise.
ANNA—[With a half hysterical laugh.] All right! I'll take port.
CHRIS—Ay go gat him. [He goes out to the bar. As soon as the door closes, Anna starts to her feet.]
ANNA—[Picking up her bag—half—aloud—stammeringly.] Gawd, I can't stand this! I better beat it. [Then she lets her bag drop, stumbles over to her chair again, and covering her face with her hands, begins to sob.]
LARRY—[Putting down his paper as CHRIS comes up—with a grin.] Well, who's the blond?