Poe. Pardon me, madam.
Mrs. S. Air you a goin’ to open that letter or air you not?
Poe. Why, good woman, to be sure I am. I did not know you were particularly interested. Excuse me. Here goes—and God mend the devil’s work. (Opens letter and reads) ‘I have talked with Brackett—’ Brackett! (Drops letter and sits dumb)
Mrs. S. He sent you the ten dollars, hey? Where is it, hey? Seems to me that’s white paper with mighty few marks on it! Not much like a ten dollar bill! Where is it, I say? Lost in the mailbags, I reckon! It will come by next post! You’re certain—quite certain, Smidgkin! I tell you, Mr. Poe, this is once too often!
Poe. A bare, unfurnished room like this—
Mrs. S. Is worth just a dollar a week to me, which is exactly a dollar more than you can pay!
Poe. Mrs. Smidgkin, there is a legend in the world that pity never wholly leaves the breast of woman.
Mrs. S. Shame to your tongue, Mr. Poe, that says I have n’t been as kind to you as your own mother—sister! Have n’t you had this room nigh to a month since I ’ve seen a cent for it? Did n’t I give you stale bread a whole week, an’ coffee a Sunday mornin’? An’ you dare say I ’m not a Christian, merciful woman? You come out o’ here, or I ’ll put hands on you, I will!
Poe. Mrs. Smidgkin, Mrs. Smidgkin, are you aware that the rain pours outside like the tears of the Danaides on their wedding night? And speaking of weddings, Smidgkin—
Mrs. S. Schmidt! As you ’ll find on my good man’s tombstone, an’ some day on my own, bless God!