Will (wildly). But don't you see that so long as I do short stories and sketches I'm a slave? I earn just enough to keep us going week by week. Pot-boiling—pot-boiling—year after year! And youth is going—life is going! Peggy, I've got to make a bold stroke, do something big and get out of this!
Peggy. But Will, it's madness! A play's the hardest thing of all to sell. There's not one chance in a thousand—a hundred thousand!
Will. But Peggy—
Peggy. Listen to me. You go off in the park and dream of plays—but I have to stay at home and face the landlady and the grocer. I tell you I can't stand it! Honest to God, I'll have to go back to the stage and keep this family going.
Will (in distress). Peggy!
Peggy. I know! But I'm at the end of my rope. The landlady was here—the grocer has shut down on us. We can't get any more bread, any more meat—all our credit's gone!
Will. Gee! It's tough!
Peggy. I've held out eight years, and we never dreamed it would last that long. You said one year—three years—then surely Dad would relent and take us back, or give us some money. But Dad doesn't relent—Dad's going to die and leave his money to a Home for Cats! I tell you, dear, I've got to go back to the stage and earn a living.
Will (radiantly). You might play the heroine of my play.
Peggy. Yes—a star the first night! Isn't that like a husband and a poet! I assure you, Will, it'll be an agency for me, and a part with three lines, at thirty a week—