Susan. Excuse me. I was here first. (Powers in glee watches dispute, rubs hands, then quietly gets hat and steals out L.)
Ralph. But you went out madam. A publishing house is like a barber shop.
Susan. (Snorts.) Barber shop!
Ralph. Yes, when you leave you lose your turn.
Susan. Humph! I don’t know anything about barber shops, and I guess from your appearance you haven’t been in one lately either.
Ralph. Madam, the natural gallantry which appertains to my sex and calling forbids me to argue this question further with a lady. (Sees that P. is gone, gives knowing look.) Satisfied of my own rights in the matter I yield to you, I go. (Bows, exit R.)
Susan. He’s not so bad after all. But what a difference between poetry and its producers. All contrast in this world! Now Mr. Powers—(reads same paragraph as before, looks up, discovers P. is gone, screams)—all gone! That fire must be real, for there isn’t a soul in sight. (Gong again.) Oh dear, if my novel should be burned it would be an irreparable loss to the world. The very thought makes me shudder. (Runs out R. crying “fire! fire!”)
Quick Curtain.
THE NEW WOMAN