SHE. What are you doing?
HE. (innocently) Writing.
SHE. So I see. (She comes in, and sits down. It may be remarked that a woman's morning appearance, in dishabille, is a severe test of both looks and character; she passes that test triumphantly. She looks at the young man, and asks)—Poetry?
HE. (hesitatingly) No….
SHE. (continues to look inquiry).
HE. (finally) A letter….
SHE. (inflexibly)—To whom?
HE. (defiantly) To my wife!
SHE. Oh! That's all right. I thought perhaps you were writing to your father.
HE. (bitterly) My father! Why should I write to my father? Isn't it enough that I have broken his heart and brought disgrace upon him in his old age—