_Will._ No!

_Peggy._ Why not?

_Will._ Because Dad hasn't forgiven me.

_Peggy._ But Will, there are plenty of other Dads--and they aren't
all so heartless. You'll simply have to choose another father for
this play. You can't write for your own satisfaction--you've got to
think about the box-office.

_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