Belle. Good-bye (she staggers slightly and he looks at her sharply).
Jack. Why, what's the matter with you?
Belle. Nothing. I'm—I'm just a little weak (catches herself by the chair).
Jack (supporting her). Why—she's fainting! Here! (To Schmidt) Bring me some water. She is ill.
Belle (feebly). No! I'm all right!
Jack (to Schmidt). Hand me that water here. Quick, man! (Schmidt obeys, dazed by his vehemence.) There, that's better? (Settles Belle in chair.) Didn't you know the girl was ill?
Schmidt. She haf not told me!
Jack. One look would have told you. She ought to go home and stay in bed for a week.
She ought to be sent away somewhere—the city is no place for one in her condition. (Belle leans Her head against the table.) There! There! (Pats her on the arm.) Why, she's as thin as a rail! How could you work a girl so?
Schmidt. Who is to do her work?