PADIE [_relenting a little_]. You'll be seein' things, Lon, if you keep it up. LON [_rising, perfectly steady_]. Mind your business. Wish to hell I had a newspaper. [_He goes out through the door to the Bar, while Padie runs a comb reflectively through the exuberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank enters and stops a moment, half blinded by the light, then looks up, and shading his eyes, smiles._] PADIE [_coyly_]. Is it the light in your eyes, mister? HANK [_daringly_]. It's you, ma'am, are blinding them. [_He runs up the stairs with the pitcher._] PADIE [_bending toward him as he comes near the top steps_]. You'd better reach it to me. Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us. HANK. It'll hold two that have such light hearts as we. PADIE. Ah, you don't know mine, mister. HANK [_reaching her the pitcher_]. There, the clumsy mut I am! Spillt the cold water on your pretty bare toes! [_As she leans over to take the pitcher her hair falls suddenly about his head, almost covering his face._] PADIE [_drawing it back, with a deft twirl_]. I've most smothered you! HANK. I wouldn't want a sweeter death. PADIE [_looking down into his eyes_]. Indeed, you're the picture of--an old lover of mine. HANK. I'd rather be the picture of the new. [_He makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently back._] PADIE. You've been very kind to a wanderer--from Arizony. Don't spoil it. Good-night! HANK [_turning about, mutters_]. Good-night. [_He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon reënters, studying a newspaper. Lon seats himself, still absorbed. Hank favors him with a glare of positive hatred._] HANK [_with a sneer_]. All fixed fer the night, eh? LON [_grunting_]. G'night. HANK. Well, I hope you like this country better'n Arizony. LON [_starting out of the news_]. The hell you say! HANK. Your wife was wishing herself back there. LON [_settling back to his paper and bottle_]. Well, that's where she come from. I don't. Women allus want what they ain't got. HANK [_retiring_]. When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast, [_He goes out, closing the door._] You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose in the west. [_During the singing of this last stanza, the double doors swing wide as before, revealing a Figure standing motionless outside, bathed in moonlight. At the same time the flame in the glass lamp begins to flicker and wane. Lon holds the paper closer to his face, finally almost buries his nose in it, as if conscious of the Presence, but stubbornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure moves, and as it crosses the threshold the feeble light expires. Lon, however, still sits, as if absorbed in the newspaper, pretending to sip from the glass. The Figure in a thin mocking voice, echoes the song of the other, standing just behind Lon's chair._]