THE FATHER. Now, don't be offended! Have it your own way--provided, however, that within the limits of the parts you assign us each one's sacrifice isn't too great. THE MANAGER. You've got to understand that you can't go on arguing at your own pleasure. Drama is action, sir, action and not confounded philosophy. THE FATHER. All right. I'll do just as much arguing and philosophizing as everybody does when he is considering his own torments. THE MANAGER. If the drama permits! But for Heaven's sake, man, let's get along and come to the scene. THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It seems to me we've got too much action with our coming into his house (_indicating Father_). You said, before, you couldn't change the scene every five minutes. THE MANAGER. Of course not. What we've got to do is to combine and group up all the facts in one simultaneous, close-knit, action. We can't have it as you want, with your little brother wandering like a ghost from room to room, hiding behind doors and meditating a project which--what did you say it did to him? THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Consumes him, sir, wastes him away! THE MANAGER. Well, it may be, And then at the same time, you want the little girl there to be playing in the garden ... one in the house, and the other in the garden: isn't that it? THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, in the sun, in the sun! That is my only pleasure: to see her happy and careless in the garden after the misery and squalor of the horrible room where we all four slept together. And I had to sleep with her--I, do you understand?--with my vile contaminated body next to hers; with her folding me fast in her loving little arms. In the garden, whenever she spied me, she would run to take me by the hand. She didn't care for the big flowers, only the little ones; and she loved to show me them and pet me.