Peggy. I'm proud of you, Will! (Rises and puts her arms about him.) We've got a real Pot-boiler! (Sound of bell in Real-play Left. Play-play vanishes. Full light on the Real-play. A post-man's whistle off Left.)
Will. What's that?
Peggy. The post-man!
Will (leaping up). Maybe it's a check for the poem!
Peggy. Oh, yes!
Will. Where's the key to the letter-box?
Peggy (runs Right). Here, I think. (Searches about.) Here! (Brings him key.) Be quick!
Will (exit Left). I'll be quick!
Peggy (As Bill tosses and calls aloud in his sleep, goes to his bed, kneels and soothes him). Oh, my baby! My baby! You're not going to be sick! No, no, I can't stand that! Anything but that! I'll have to give it up! Will must give up trying to be a writer, and get some sort of paying job. Or I'll have to go on the stage again, and earn some real money——(Hearing Will returning, she leaps up and runs Left.) Was it the check?
Will (enters). Yes.