Will (leaping up and flinging out his hands). Oh, my God! The box-office! Have I got to slaughter my artistic instincts to feed the greed of a box-office? For God's sake, Peggy, take this play and write it to suit the taste of Broadway! Or shall I tear up the darned stuff? (Seizes Mss.)
Peggy (interfering). Will!
Will. I've got a play written, and you come and tell me to write another. And when I take it to the manager, he'll tell me to write a third. And his wife will read it, and I'll have to write a fourth! And then there's the stage-manager—perhaps he has a wife too! Who else, for the love of Mike?
Peggy (laughing). Why there's the star, and the leading lady—in this case you've got two actresses fighting for precedence, tearing each other's eyes out over the question of dressing-rooms. Then there's the press agent and the property-man, and the dramatic editors of a dozen newspapers, who'll tell you next morning exactly why your play fell flat. (Puts her arms about him.) Will, dear, don't be so impatient. Try to understand what I mean! Such a frightfully depressing ending—everybody in the play has lost everything!
Will. But that isn't so!
Peggy. Jack has lost his wager, and his quarter of a million dollars—and his home!
Will. But see what he's gained.
Peggy. What?
Will. In the first place wisdom, and in the second a wife.
Peggy. Few people in the audience know anything about wisdom, and everyone of them knows that he could buy a wife for less than a quarter of a million dollars.