Sec. (Rises and comes out from desk.) And Mr. Blake of the gas company has at last consented to become Mr. Blake-Lightfoot. I’ve saved enough for two.
Dollie. Shake, old chap! (Groans, others buzz.)
Mary. And, if you please, ladies, I give notice. Next month I lead Mr. Mack to the altar. (Excitement.)
Birdie. And you too, Smilax! Since you were a tiny waif, this club has been your mother and has watched over you. We taught you to be a new woman, and this is our reward.
Mary. Oh, please, Miss Robbins, I respect you greatly, and I do love the club dearly (sighs), but I love dear Mack more. I just couldn’t help it. (Cries with face in apron.)
Birdie. There’s nothing to do but close the doors. The club is dead. (Wipes eyes.)
Dollie. (Crosses R. C., takes Birdie’s hand.) Cheer up, Robbins, cheer up. You are not a marrying woman. I value freedom too much to surrender it. And there’s Doughflyer, she’ll stick by us. She has principles—and a name. We’ll go on as before.
Birdie. The mischief is done.
Dollie. We’ll reorganize if necessary. (She leads Birdie down C., dress stage.)
Birdie. (Sadly.) No, we never can survive this disaster. The old woman will laugh at the new, and ridicule kills. The club is dead. The finger of progress goes back on the dial of time at least a century. Good-bye dear, old club, the scene of my busiest, happiest, hours. Good-bye forever.