MAUD. [Relenting.] Ye-e-s. [She rises, crosses to table, and is about to stoop for motor cloak and bonnet, but he forestall her, holds cloak and helps her into it.] Thank you. [She takes off wig, fluffs her own hair becomingly, and puts on bonnet, looking every inch a pretty young girl, ready for an automobile ride.] FITZSIMMONS. [Who, all the time, watching her transformation, has been growing bashful, now handing her the cigarette case.] Here's the cigarette case. You may k-k-keep it. MAUD. [Looking at him, hesitates, then takes it.] I thank you--er--Bob. I shall treasure it all my life. [He is very embarrassed.] Why, I do believe you're bashful. What is the matter? FITZSIMMONS. [Stammering.] Why--I--you--You are a girl--and--a--a--deuced pretty one. MAUD. [Taking his arm, ready to start for door.] But you knew it all along. FITZSIMMONS. But it's somehow different now when you've got your girl's clothes on. MAUD. But you weren't a bit bashful--or nice, when--you--you--[Blurting it out.] Were so anxious about birth marks. [They start to make exit.] CURTAIN