Peter stared at her. “And what do you suppose it means to me!”
“Why—I don't know, of course...”
Peter strode to the desk, unlocked the middle drawer next the wall, drew out the six little bank books, and almost threw them into her lap.
“Look at those,” he said—“all of them!”
“Why—” she hesitated.
“Go through them, please! Add them up.”
Half smiling, she did so. Then said: “It seems to come to almost seven thousand dollars.”
“That's the money that's going to work out your dream.”
She glanced up at him, then down at the books.
“It's all I've got in the world—all—all! That, and the three per cent, it brings in. My play—they're going to produce it in the fall. You won't like it. It's the old ideas, the old Broadway stuff.”