MAUD. Wh-a-a-t?
FITZSIMMONS. A toot. You know—one of those rip-snorting nights you used to make.
MAUD. [Emphatically, as she picks up newspapers from leather chair, sits down, and places them on her lap.] I’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ve—I’ve reformed.
FITZSIMMONS. You used to joy-ride like the very devil.
MAUD. I know it.
FITZSIMMONS. And you always had a pretty girl or two along.
MAUD. [Boastfully, in mannish, fashion.] Oh, I still have my fling. Do you know any—well,—er,—nice girls?
FITZSIMMONS. Sure.
MAUD. Put me wise.
FITZSIMMONS. Sure. You know Jack Sylvester?