Mate—Of my father. The picture of my poor old father.
Juhasz—But this is a photograph of the actor, Girardi.
Mate—They resemble each other a lot. Everybody says so.
Juhasz—[Thoughtfully.] Hum! And what does this prove?
Mate—That he's the one . . . I sent the dirty money to.
Juhasz—[Undeceived.] No, Mate. You are lying to me. [Returns the photograph to him.] This is unpardonable. . . . They were perfectly right in what they said about you. [Looks at his watch.] You are dismissed, Mate . . . and now you may go. [Does not trust himself to look at Mate, but gives him a shove toward the door.]
Mate—[Kisses the photograph.] Poor father! Who'll send you money now . . . the first of every month?
Juhasz—[Greatly distressed.] Please . . . stop that . . . and go!
Mate—And my poor little girl . . . who'll feed her now?
Juhasz—You have a child, too?. . . I don't want to hear about it.
Mate—I didn't say anything to you. [Starts to go.] My poor, sick little girl!
