Will. I'll tell you, Peggy. Wait a bit.
Peggy (as he takes mail from pocket). Some mail?
Will. Yes—all rejection slips. Nothing but rejection slips! (throws pile of returned manuscripts on the table). How I wish some magazine would get a new kind of rejection slip! (Sits dejectedly.)
Peggy. Did you get any money for the rent?
Will. Not yet, Peggy (suddenly). The truth is, I didn't try. Peggy, I've got to write that play!
Peggy (Horrified). Will!
Will. I tell you I've got to! That's what I've been doing—sitting in Union Square, working it over—ever since lunch time! It's a perfectly stunning idea.
Peggy. Oh, Will, I know all that—but how can you write plays when we must have money? Money right away! Money to pay the landlady! Money to pay the grocer!
Will. But Peggy—
Peggy. Will, you've got to do something that will sell right off the bat—payment on acceptance! Short stories! Sketches!