_Will (leaping up and flinging out his hands)._ Oh, my God! The box-office! Have I got to slaughter my artistic instincts to feed the greed of a box-office? For God's sake, Peggy, take this play and write it to suit the taste of Broadway! Or shall I tear up the darned stuff? _(Seizes Mss.)_ _Peggy (interfering)._ Will! _Will._ I've got a play written, and you come and tell me to write another. And when I take it to the manager, he'll tell me to write a third. And his wife will read it, and I'll have to write a fourth! And then there's the stage-manager--perhaps he has a wife too! Who else, for the love of Mike? _Peggy (laughing)._ Why there's the star, and the leading lady--in this case you've got two actresses fighting for precedence, tearing each other's eyes out over the question of dressing-rooms. Then there's the press agent and the property-man, and the dramatic editors of a dozen newspapers, who'll tell you next morning exactly why your play fell flat. _(Puts her arms about him.)_ Will, dear, don't be so impatient. Try to understand what I mean! Such a frightfully depressing ending--everybody in the play has lost everything! _Will._ But that isn't so! _Peggy._ Jack has lost his wager, and his quarter of a million dollars--and his home! _Will._ But see what he's gained. _Peggy._ What? _Will._ In the first place wisdom, and in the second a wife. _Peggy._ Few people in the audience know anything about wisdom, and everyone of them knows that he could buy a wife for less than a quarter of a million dollars. _Will._ That's all very well--for a funny line. But there's many a man would give that much money to find a noble-hearted and faithful and loving woman, who would stand by him through all the trials of his life! I gave up more than a quarter of a million myself, and do you suppose it ever occurs to me to regret the bargain? Do you suppose I'd be willing to wipe you and Bill out of existence if I could get my money back? _Peggy (lays her hand, on his)._ Will, dear, that's very sweet of you, but it's not the same in your play. In the first place, Bill isn't Jack's child; and then Belle is dying. You see, you've told such a dreadful story-- _Will (irritably)._ Don't tell me that all over again! _Peggy._ Forgive me! You've got a headache, and you're worn out--we oughtn't to try to argue now. You simply can't get this play right while you're so over-wrought. Take a little time off, and rest and get a fresh view of it. _Will._ But we'll starve to death in the meantime! _Peggy._ No, dear, we needn't. Let me go and get a job to tide us over the trouble. So you can do your work without killing yourself--please, dear, please! _Will (in thought)._ Listen, Peggy. If we're going to make a break, I've thought of something better. _Peggy._ What is it? _Will._ I'll go and see Dad. _Peggy._ Oh, Will, you couldn't do that!