Professor of English Literature, College of the City of New York
Scene, a decently but not richly furnished room, belonging to Margaret. Table, small writing-desk, chairs, a cupboard, two windows up stage, doors right and left. At rise of curtain, Clement is discovered leaning against mantelpiece, in a very elegant dark gray morning suit, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. Margaret stands by window, then walks up and down, finally comes behind Clement and runs her hands through his hair. She seems rather restless. Clement goes on reading, then seizes her hand and kisses it.
Clement. Horner is sure of his game—or rather my game. Waterloo five to one, Barometer twenty to one, Busserl seven to one, Attila sixteen to one.
Margaret. Sixteen to one!
Clement. Lord Byron six to four—that's us, darling!
Margaret. I know.
Clement. Besides, it's still six weeks to the race.
Margaret. Apparently he thinks it's a dead certainty.
Clement. The way she knows all the terms ...!
Margaret. I've known these terms longer than I have you. And is it quite settled that you'll ride Lord Byron yourself?