MAUD. [Glancing quickly from his face to portrait and back again.] Yes, and I know you—You are Robert Fitzsimmons.
FITZSIMMONS. I thought I knew you.
MAUD. Yes, it was out in San Francisco. My people still live there. I’m just—ahem—doing New York.
FITZSIMMONS. But I don’t quite remember the name.
MAUD. Jones—Harry Jones.
FITZSIMMONS. [Hugely delighted, leaping from chair and striding over to her.] Sure. [Slaps her resoundingly on shoulder.]
[She is nearly crushed by the weight of the blow, and at the same time shocked. She scrambles to her feet.]
FITZSIMMONS. Glad to see you, Harry. [He wrings her hand, so that it hurts.] Glad to see you again, Harry. [He continues wringing her hand and pumping her arm.]
MAUD. [Struggling to withdraw her hand and finally succeeding. Her voice is rather faint.] Ye-es, er . . . Bob . . . er . . . glad to see you again. [She looks ruefully at her bruised fingers and sinks into chair. Then, recollecting her part, she crosses her legs in a mannish way.]
FITZSIMMONS. [Crossing to desk at right, against which he leans, facing her.] You were a wild young rascal in those San Francisco days. [Chuckling.] Lord, Lord, how it all comes back to me.