Dealing in Futures: A Play in Three Acts

by Harold Brighouse

ROSIE (Eagerly). Yes? Any illness amongst the men, doctor?

CLAV. Only this Alcott. I'll discuss that with Mr. Thompson. Don't let's waste time now. (Rises and moves to back of table.) I hoped so much to see you alone. I never get a chance.

ROSIE. There's always the telephone.

CLAV. I can't see your face through the telephone, and it's always about others. What a great heart you have, Miss Thompson! (Sits above table.)

ROSIE. I? Oh, one does what one can.

CLAV. For others.

ROSIE. Others?

CLAV. Yes; for me it's the telephone—always the telephone. So and so's ill—a name passes, an address, and we ring off. I never get the chance of seeing you alone.

ROSIE. Doctors are such busy people, aren't they?

CLAV. Not too busy to be human, to desire to see in the flesh the woman one's always communicating with through a cold-blooded telephone. We're allies, you know, Miss Thompson, fellow-conspirators, aren't we? That makes a bond between us.