MAMIE. Well then, you’re a dark horse.
TULLY (mystified). A dark—horse?
MAMIE. You know, one of those outsiders who comes up with a rush on the rails at the last minute, and wins by a short head. Do you get me?
TULLY. I don’t quite understand what you mean.
MAMIE. I mean you can go the pace when you like. (She raises her dress and picks a piece of fluff from the hem—blows it into space.)
TULLY. No, I don’t go. . . . (Sees MAMIE exposing a deal of leg—he is very embarrassed—wipes his forehead with handkerchief.) No, I don’t go at all! (Rising, and backing away from her.)
MAMIE. What do you do to amuse yourself?
TULLY. I go to chapel on Wednesdays and Saturdays (doing a sort of Skating Act with legs and twisting backwards and forwards) and I attend the Mission on Tuesdays and Fridays. (Again down to her and seeing leg, stumbles backwards and wiping forehead with handkerchief keeps up this business, doing a sort of skating waltz.)
MAMIE. Did they teach you that ragtime down at the Mission? (Jumping up.) I like your drunken step—I must get hold of that! (Catches TULLY and forces him round the room as if dancing a ragtime—MAMIE sings and dances as well.)
TULLY (breaks away from MAMIE and rushes to door R. and knocking on door—feverishly). John! John!