Mrs. Pencil [evasively]. I? Oh—no.
Miss Ivory. You've heard of him?
Mrs. Pencil. Yes—of course——
Sud [aside]. Do you catch it? Do you see how her nervousness and her few words at once suggest that there is a link between Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell? That's where I show my technique.
Wouldby [scratching his head]. Technique! How can I learn it?
Sud. It is the secret that every playwright locks in his breast. Keep the young ones out! Mum is the word!
Miss Ivory. I am so sorry father has all this trouble with the brick-layers. They shouldn't have gone on a strike—just now—when you are visiting us.
Sud [to Wouldby]. That tells that Mrs. Pencil is a guest in Miss Ivory's house.
Miss Ivory. When you were here last year my mother——
Sud [aside]. The girl hesitates—they both look sorrowful; we had to cut down the cast, so I killed off her mother.