[Recovering herself and rubbing her nose.] I told you I was out of practice. You punch the bag, Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. I will, if you will show me what you can do with that wonderful soprano voice of yours.
MAUD. I don’t dare. Everybody would think there was a woman in the club.
FITZSIMMONS. [Shaking his head.] No, they won’t. They’ve all gone to the fight. There’s not a soul in the building.
MAUD. [Alarmed, in a weak voice.] Not—a—soul—in—the building?
FITZSIMMONS. Not a soul. Only you and I.
MAUD. [Starting hurriedly toward door.] Then I must go.
FITZSIMMONS. What’s your hurry? Sing.
MAUD. [Turning back with new resolve.] Let me see you punch the bag,—er—Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. You sing first.