(Mary has gone to her typewriter and now begins typing.)
Martin. Stop that noise! (She does so. Rodney looks at her, discouraged. She motions to him to go on. Meanwhile Martin has painfully limped to a chair down-stage by table and sinks into it. His foot gives him another twinge.) Ouch! Oh, my poor foot!
(Rodney hastily picks up footstool and comes with it to his father.)
Rodney. I’m afraid your foot hurts.
Martin. Not at all—I just pretend that it does!
Rodney. (Fervently) I hoped you were better.
Martin. Well, I’m not. What have you got there?
Rodney. A footstool—I thought it might make you more comfortable.
Martin. How much do you want?