[Mix shakes his head. Madden goes quickly to the window and looks out. From there he rushes to the door and peers out, first to one side and then to the other. He shuts the door, and with a hopeless look on his face comes back into the room. Outside the light is steadily fading.]
Mix [slowly rising from his chair, a look of still greater annoyance on his face]. I guess Florrie ain't comin' f'r some time. I'll be goin'. [He goes over toward his coat and hat.]
Madden [nervously]. Why don't you drop into Smith's soda parlor? That's where she always is, this time o' the afternoon.
Mix. She ain't there, I don't guess.... I jus' come from there m'self.
Madden [intensely]. You did?
Mix. Sure.
Madden [wildly]. Ed—I can't stand this waitin' f'r her any more. [He goes quickly and gets his hat and coat from a peg near the stove.] I'm goin' out.
[Madden goes swiftly across the room to the door at the back and goes out. He is seen to pass outside in front of the back window. Mix takes a few involuntary steps after him toward the door, then stops and gives a low whistle of astonishment. After a moment he turns and starts back toward his hat and coat.]
Mix [half aloud]. Poor ol' Jim.
[He gets his hat and coat, and puts them on. In the course of a few seconds the reflective look has gone from his face; he begins to whistle softly the same refrain as before. From his pocket he produces a cigarette, which he places in his mouth. He is preparing to light it when a thought strikes him. He goes quickly over to the phonograph and, bending down, takes a record and examines it. It has become so dark that he is unable to read the title; so he lights the neighboring gas jet. He then examines two or three records in quick succession, finally producing one which causes a smile to spread over his face.]