Sue (overjoyed): It’s Dick. He’s home. Dick (coming on mike): Mother, wait— Sound—Door bursts open Dick (full mike): Wait until you hear—What’s that paper? Sue: Mr. Tice left it— Dick: Tice? What’s that other paper? A check from Tice? You didn’t—Oh! Sound—Door closes Curtain Motionless, silent, Vic Wylie had sat through the dress. He lifted his head. “No. You’re expecting a bomb-shell and all you get is a bubble. The curtain’s a phony.” The studio was silent. What was it, Joe wondered, that left that sensation of hollowness? There should have been drama. Sue’s distress, Dick’s return—and a door closed. That was all—a door closed. He brought his hands together with a clap. “Got something, kid?” Wylie’s eyes, despite their weariness, burned. “What happens?” Joe asked. “A door shuts. You don’t know whether Dick’s simply shut the door or whether he’s walked out. It’s just a sound. The show’s too human for that. It must end on a human note. The door’s an anti-climax. Dick says: ‘A check from Tice? You didn’t—’ That’s where the door should close, slowly, as though all the pep’s been knocked out of him. Then he says that one word. ‘Oh!’ Isn’t that your curtain?” Once before, on the day he had suggested a change in Pop Bartell’s reading in the _Bush-League Larry_ show, the producer had studied him with that strange intentness. “I should have seen it, kid. Tired. We’ll see how it goes. Got your script marked? Stella. Take it from ‘Mr. Tice left.’” They read again: Sue: Mr. Tice left it— Dick: Tice? What’s that other paper? A check? A check from Tice? You didn’t— Sound—Door closes Dick: Oh! “That does it,” Vic Wylie said at last. “The real McCoy. It stands.” He picked up his brief-case and left them. Sonny draped a top-coat across his arm. “First an actor and now a producer. You should try script-writing, Carlin.” He sauntered toward the door. “He makes me furious,” Stella snapped. Joe had never before seen her ruffled. “In the movies,” Bert Farr said, “they tried to hog the camera. On the stage they have a trick of spoiling another actor’s big scenes by moving about and distracting the audience. How long will Vic put up with him?” Stella looked at Joe. “I want to be around the day Vic lets down his hair.” Clear understanding came to Joe. Stella had suspected that Amby, flushed with a new importance, would not be able to resist the temptation to impress that importance on Vic Wylie; Stella had urged him into the studio so that Wylie would make a fresh mental comparison. “Thanks, Stella,” he said. Stella gave a faint smile. “Not that Vic needed the lesson,” she said.