“So you're a college girl?”
“Yes, and a crowd of us went. That one wasn't so bad as the others. You know your tricks well enough—especially in comedy, carpentered comedy. Theatrically, I suppose you're really pretty good or your things wouldn't succeed. It is when you try to deal with life—and with women—that you're....” Words failed her. She smoked in silence.
“I'm what?” he ventured. “The limit?”
“Yes,” she replied, very thoughtful. “Since you've said it.”
“All right,” he cried, aiming at a gay humor and missing heavily—“but now, having slapped me in the face and thrown me out in the snow, don't you think that you'd better—” He hesitated, watching for a smile that failed to make its appearance. “That I'd better what?”
“Well—tell me a little more?”
“I was wondering if I could. The difficulty is, it's the whole thing—your attitude toward life—the perfectly conventional, perfectly unimaginative home and mother stuff, your hopeless sentimentality about women, the slushy, horrible, immoral Broadway falseness that lies back of everything you do—the Broadway thing, always. Ever, in your comedy, good as that sometimes is. Your insight into life is just about that of a hardened director of one-reel films. What I've been wondering since we met this afternoon—you see, I didn't know that we were going to meet in this way...
“Naturally.”
“... is whether it would be any use to try and help you. You have ability enough.”
“Thanks for that!”