ACT II

The same day. The same room. Late in the afternoon. The spare
chair for visitors has been replaced at the table, which is, if
possible, more untidy than before. Marchbanks, alone and idle, is
trying to find out how the typewriter works. Hearing someone at
the door, he steals guiltily away to the window and pretends to
be absorbed in the view. Miss Garnett, carrying the notebook in
which she takes down Morell's letters in shorthand from his
dictation, sits down at the typewriter and sets to work
transcribing them, much too busy to notice Eugene. Unfortunately
the first key she strikes sticks.

PROSERPINE. Bother! You've been meddling with my typewriter, Mr.
Marchbanks; and there's not the least use in your trying to look
as if you hadn't.

MARCHBANKS (timidly). I'm very sorry, Miss Garnett. I only tried
to make it write.

PROSERPINE. Well, you've made this key stick.

MARCHBANKS (earnestly). I assure you I didn't touch the keys. I
didn't, indeed. I only turned a little wheel. (He points
irresolutely at the tension wheel.)

PROSERPINE. Oh, now I understand. (She sets the machine to
rights, talking volubly all the time.) I suppose you thought it
was a sort of barrel-organ. Nothing to do but turn the handle,