[_Crosses down and sits in armchair_.
WILL. And if she should ever go back and come to me, I am going to
insist that she let you know all about it. It'll be hard enough to
lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more
to be double-crossed.
JOHN. [_Sarcastically_.] That's very kind. Thanks!
WILL. Don't get sore. It's common sense and it goes, does it not?
JOHN. [_Turns to_ WILL.] Just what goes?
WILL. If she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to
me I'll make her let you know just when and why.
JOHN _is leaning on arm, facing_ WILL; _his hand shoots out in a
gesture of warning to_ WILL.
JOHN. Look out!
WILL. I said common sense.
JOHN. All right.
WILL. Agreed? [_A pause_.
JOHN. You're on.
_By this time the stage is black and all that can be seen is the glow
of the two cigars. Piano in the next room is heard_. JOHN _crosses
slowly and deliberately to door, looks in, throws cigar away over the
terrace, exits into house, closes doors, and, as_ WILL _is seated on
terrace, puffing cigar, the red coal of which is alone visible, a slow
curtain_.
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
SCENE. _Six months have elapsed. The furnished room of_ LAURA MURDOCK,
_second story back of an ordinary, cheap theatrical lodging-house in
the theatre district of New York. The house is evidently of a type of
the old-fashioned brown-stone front, with high ceilings, dingy walls,
and long, rather insecure windows.
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