(Mary primps, and sits at typewriter again, and idly touches the keys with one finger, maintaining an eager watch on the door. She hears someone coming and hastily and busily bangs away at the typewriter. Rodney Martin enters door L. He is a young man of twenty-four with a certain quaint frank charm, in spite of his funny little mustache, English morning coat, spats and white carnation. He is by no means brainless, but simply undeveloped by reason of the kind of life he has led under appallingly frictionless conditions.)
Rodney. Miss Grayson!
(Mary’s previous business-like air has entirely disappeared, and she assumes the fluttering airs of a timid ingenue, overdoing it for anyone except a boy madly in love with her.)
Mary. What a surprise! (Rodney goes and locks both doors L.) Why, Mr. Martin ... what are you doing?
Rodney. (Coming to her and facing her over back of chair) I want to talk with you. Mary, will you marry me?
Mary. Why, really——
Rodney. You love me, don’t you?
Mary. I—I don’t know what to say——
Rodney. Say Yes.
Mary. (Shyly) Yes.