HAROLD. In these clothes?
ISABEL. Or Jim's. Just as you like.
HAROLD. Very well. I shall go as I am. (Gloomily) After all, I don't know why I should mind one more farcical touch to my situation. A grown man that doesn't know how to earn his living—
ISABEL. I've suggested several ways.
HAROLD. Yes, acting! No. I'd rather starve.
ISABEL. There are other alternatives.
HAROLD. Yes. Looking over the scientific magazines and finding out about new inventions, and writing little pieces about them and selling that to other magazines!
ISABEL. Why not?
HAROLD. A pretty job for a poet! What do I know about machinery?
ISABEL. All the poets I know pay their rent that way. And they none of them know anything about machinery.