_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! _Will (wildly)._ But don't you see that so long as I do short stories and sketches I'm a slave? I earn just enough to keep us going week by week. Pot-boiling--pot-boiling--year after year! And youth is going--life is going! Peggy, I've got to make a bold stroke, do something big and get out of this! _Peggy._ But Will, it's madness! A play's the hardest thing of all to sell. There's not one chance in a thousand--a hundred thousand! _Will._ But Peggy-- _Peggy._ Listen to me. You go off in the park and dream of plays--but I have to stay at home and face the landlady and the grocer. I tell you I can't stand it! Honest to God, I'll have to go back to the stage and keep this family going. _Will (in distress)._ Peggy! _Peggy._ I know! But I'm at the end of my rope. The landlady was here--the grocer has shut down on us. We can't get any more bread, any more meat--all our credit's gone! _Will._ Gee! It's tough! _Peggy._ I've held out eight years, and we never dreamed it would last that long. You said one year--three years--then surely Dad would relent and take us back, or give us some money. But Dad doesn't relent--Dad's going to die and leave his money to a Home for Cats! I tell you, dear, I've got to go back to the stage and earn a living. _Will (radiantly)._ You might play the heroine of my play. _Peggy._ Yes--a star the first night! Isn't that like a husband and a poet! I assure you, Will, it'll be an agency for me, and a part with three lines, at thirty a week-- _Will (sits staring before him, with repressed intensity)._ Listen! I've tried--honest, I've tried, but I can't get away from that play. You know how often I've said that I wanted to find a story like our own--so that I could use our local color, pour our emotions into it, our laughter and our tears. And, Peggy, this is the story! Our _own_ story! It has pathos and charm--it will hold the crowd-- _Peggy_. Dear Will, _what_ do you know about the crowd? Pathos and charm! Do you suppose the mob that comes swarming into Broadway at eight o'clock every evening is on the hunt for pathos and charm? They want to see women with the latest Paris fashions on them--or with nothing on them at all! They want to see men in evening dress, drinking high-balls, lighting expensive cigars, departing from palatial homes to the chugging sound of automobiles. _Will_. But Peggy, this play will have two dress-suit acts. I can show the world I used to live in--I can use Dad's own house for a scene. And I can finish it in four days!